


Long Live the King

by Dkpetersen26



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Multi, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2020-05-15 23:38:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 31,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19306186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dkpetersen26/pseuds/Dkpetersen26
Summary: When a Targaryen is born, the Gods flip a coin. What if Joffrey Baratheon's coin had landed on the other side?A sort-of Self-Insert where Joffrey isn't a psychopath.Partly inspired by the fourth-wall breaking moments in House of Cards."You're just enough of a good person to be a benevolent king, and just enough of a heartless bastard to be a strong one."





	1. Chapter 1

"I should have spent more time with you. Shown you how to be a man. I was never meant to be a father."  


Exactly one third of that was true, by my estimation.  


Robert Baratheon spending more time with me? Good grief, no.  


Show me how to be a man? If ever there was a man manifestly unqualified for the task of teaching the art of productive manhood, it was Robert Baratheon.  


Never meant to be a father? That sounds about right.  


I suppose I should have been at least a touch melancholy. Mournful, perhaps. A touch more forgiving on the man, certainly. After all, as unsuitable as he was for the role, Robert Baratheon had been my father. Alas, I had more important tasks than discovering any tucked-away grief.  


Tommen and Myrcella would have to be secured, first and foremost. Even though it was not public knowledge that the King was dead, the people who did know were still sufficiently powerful to cause trouble. They would have to be dealt with in due course.  


“Have the Kingsguard rally to my brother. Keep Myrcella and Tommen secure in Maegor’s Holdfast until I explicitly instruct otherwise. Separately.”  


Better to have my coin in different purses, even if those purses were precariously close.

Ser Barristan seemed to hesitate. I rounded on him. The wise old knight did not flinch or even blink. Not that I expected him to. The hero of Duskendale was most certainly not finished just yet. All of which made his hesitation all the more irritating and perplexing.  


“Speak your mind, Ser Barristan.”  


The command seemed to surprise him. That was to be expected, my father had seen the Kingsguard as a nuisance; to be neither seen nor heard. Much like his children.  


“Your Grace, it was your father’s wish that Lord Stark become Regent until you reach manhood.”  


I blew air through my teeth. Honourable men are useful and annoying in equal measure.  


“How well do you know your history, Ser Barristan?”  


He shrugged. “About as well as any other knight does, I suppose, Your Grace.”  


Not at all, then.  


“Do you know what happened the last time a Stark served as Lord Regent?”  


I could see him racking his brains and, frankly, I didn’t have time to wait for those old cogs to start spinning quickly enough to find the answer to that question.  


“Never mind. Just know that it didn’t end well. Or quickly. Eddard Stark is a good and honourable man, and a capable lord. But he is a man of the North. He is not suited to the South and particularly not to King’s Landing. He cannot become Lord Regent or this place will devour him.”  


The Lord Commander of my Kingsguard seemed disheartened by this. I placed my hand on his shoulder. A king should be wise, even fatherly, in times of strife. 

After serving a king who was sickly, a king who was mad and a king who was drunk, Barristan needed a king who was strong, caring, and wise. Age is but a number to those who are willing to ignore it. Many boys would make good kings.  


“The king is dead, Ser Barristan.”  


Ser Barristan looked at me then, and I saw that he was mine.  


“Long live the King.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa Stark was the key to the North. That was the fullest extent of my mother's political wisdom, so far as I could tell. She would have to be kept close. Not that that would be a huge problem, I mused as I knocked on the door to her chambers.

Of course, she was also much more than that. She was to be my wife, and I dearly hoped that whatever troubles I was to encounter, this would still be the case at the end of it. It wasn't just because she was pretty either, though that certainly didn't hurt. The thing that attracted me the most to Sansa was her potential. When I first met her, I'd thought her to be sweet and kind, but frankly a little bit simple. This might have satisfied most men, but I wanted a queen whom I could trust to stand behind me, and who could hold her own in court. Sansa was already showing enormous promise in this. All I would have to do was keep her within my reach, and away from harm. 

"Enter."

I complied and found Sansa sitting with a few of her friends, chatting loudly about something I didn't really care about. It took them a beat to realise who had come among them and stand hurriedly.

"Your Grace!" Sansa cried happily, curtsying. Her chirpy companions followed suit. "I apologise, we did not expect you."

I smiled. Florian may have been a fool, but he had taught me that charm could go a long way when it came to empty-headed maidens.

"Nor would I have expected you to. Pardon me, my ladies, but might I be allowed to speak to my betrothed alone?"

I think my smile survived the giggles that rippled through the group. If my marriage hadn't been so important I might have been tempted to stave one of those insipid girl's heads in.

Once the vermin had filtered out and I was left with my future wife, I allowed myself to "collapse" into one of the chairs. Sansa rushed over to me, concern evident in her expression. 

"What is it, Your Grace?"

I paused, as if lost. Weakness, even feigned weakness, begets pity and pity can melt a person like a stick of wax in the Dornish sun; the end result perfectly malleable and endlessly manipulable.

"M-my father is dead."

The stutter was maybe overdoing it a touch, but it had the desired effect. Sansa gasped and rushed to throw her arms around me. I sighed contentedly. It felt nice. I could definitely get used to this...

"If Your Grace requires anything of me, anything at all, I am here for you." 

Such sentiments were dangerous in King's Landing. They would have to be neutered in due course. In the meantime, however, it would be foolhardy not to take advantage.

"In that case, I have two requests."

Sansa pulled back, looking for all the world like a pup waiting for a pat.

"Firstly, I would very much like you to call me Joffrey. We are betrothed, after all. Is that acceptable?"

Sansa blushed, trying - and failing - to conceal her delight. 

"Only if Your Grace will call me Sansa."

I genuinely laughed at that. It would seem that she was already talented at getting what she wanted.

"You drive a hard bargain, Sansa."

Sansa giggled, shaking her head giddily. Her innocence was intoxicating. Such a pity. 

I paused for a moment, to add weight to my next request, and to let her think I was putting more effort into it than I actually was. I knew what I was going to say even before I walked into the room.

"Tommen and Myrcella... They are still young and, frankly, I worry about them... Would you go to Maegor's Holdfast and keep them company for me? At least until I can sort this mess out. It would please me greatly if you could become close with them; they are to be your good-siblings and I would like you all to be happy with each other."

If any other person had nodded as fiercely as Sansa did at that moment, it would have looked faintly ridiculous. But this was Sansa. The bobbing of her head simply made the colours of her hair hit the light from new angles, and the earnest sincerity in her eyes shoved a dagger of guilt into my stomach. An uncomfortable truth became clear to me then: I was beginning to love her. But was this who Sansa would be once she had her carapace and her sting? Only time would tell. As it was, I hid my unease behind a smile.

"Thank you, Sansa."

There weren't many things that could me render speechless - an accusation which was also levelled at my uncle Tyrion - but in that moment, Sansa beamed and, well... That was it. 

I looked at her, and she looked at me. Our eyes met and she averted her gaze, blushing. I reached out and grasped her chin between my thumb and forefinger, bringing her eyes back to me.

"What is it?"

I think my voice might have gone up an octave.

Sansa tried to avoid looking at me but I held her fast, raising my eyebrows. Her skin warmed between my fingers.

"It's just... No, it's silly."

I leaned closer to her, not releasing her from my grip.

"If you really thought it was silly, it wouldn't be on your mind, Sansa."

It took her but a few seconds to crumble. She nodded, took a deep breath, and looked me in the eyes with renewed confidence.

"I've been taught all my life that I was going to be married off to some lord or another, and that we would have children. I always accepted that. And yet, Septa Mordane always told me that it was sinful for a woman to want... congress."

I don't know how I didn't laugh at that particular euphemism.

"But recently, I've been thinking more and more about you, and what we're going to do on our wedding night, and I look forward to it. Not just the children, but what comes before it too. I mean, men go to whorehouses so it must be enjoyable. Yet, it feels wrong that I feel that way, Joffrey."

I took a few seconds to consider my answer to that. I didn't believe in the Seven, but I recognised the paradoxical power of religion in this mad world. A god is far more powerful than a king, and a king with a god on his side is like a leaf in a gale-force wind; he might be propelled to immortality by the unstoppable force at his back, or he might torn to shreds by its ominous, omnidirectional might, or both, or neither. I reached out with my free hand and wrapped my fingers around hers.

"I agree with you; why would men pay for whores if they didn't enjoy being with them? However, the real question you should really ask yourself is whether or not the gods would have made it enjoyable for us if they didn't want us to do it."

She perked up at that.

"And if the gods wanted us to do it, it cannot be wrong."

I grinned cockily.

"Exactly."

I leaned in invitingly. Sansa glanced downwards and reciprocated shyly.

I'd kissed her on the cheek before, but nothing could have prepared me for the feeling that me hit like a brick when my lips touched hers. It was sweet and shy and fumbling and undignified and oh, so _right._

That glorious feeling was replaced by a burning sensation in my lungs as I realised that we were suffocating each other. I pushed her gently but firmly away and turned my head to avoid breathing all over her.

"That was..."

Sansa giggled, looking more like a tomato by the second. Gods know what I must have looked like.

"Interesting?"

I raised my eyebrows, bobbing my head slightly.

"That's one way to describe it."

I leaned in again and quickly pecked her lips again. I brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

"I need to convene the Small Council."

Sansa wasn't good at hiding her disappointment, either. Her smile dimmed a little, and she fell quiet.

I took hold of her chin again.

"Once my coronation has been arranged, I will need you to get started on our wedding."

Her eyes brightened, and she beamed.

"Perhaps you could start planning with Myrcella now. Have Clegane escort you to Maegor's Holdfast and tell the Kingsguard that I have given my permission for you to enter."

I never said that she could leave.

She nodded earnestly, and I kissed her one more time before letting go of her. She crossed the room and opened the door, looking back at me as she left. I smiled and nodded encouragingly and she reciprocated, closing the door as she left.

I breathed out slowly and sank back into the chair. I twiddled my thumbs for a few seconds, listening keenly. Not that I expected to able to hear anything.

Time for an experiment.

"Would you be so kind as to bring Lord Varys to this chamber?" I asked nobody in particular. "I will wait for a half-hour." As amusing as the sight of the Spider running would no doubt be, it would be a trifle optimistic to expect such an outcome. Instead, I scanned Sansa's shelf and picked a book off it.

" _The Wonderful Adventure of Womanhood._ " 

My mouth twisted into a smile saturated with contempt. An suitably unfortunate title for such literary sewage, so much so that it was unclear who had written it. I liked to think it was because the author had been so ashamed of its contents that they refused to have anything to do with it, but it was more likely that it was written by some septa in the Riverlands who had neglected to provide her name in a fit of pretentious humility. The Riverlords possessed a quite uniquely nugatory brand of piety: not sufficient to belie zealour, and thereby pliancy with the correct handling, but enough to write this kind of dross, and this unfortunate mediocrity extended to their septons. Still, it was, if nothing else, a masochistic yet amusing read. I stood and dragged my chair to the far corner so that I could see the whole room, and settled down to read.


	3. Chapter 3

"The Wonderful Adventure of Womanhood."

I snapped the book shut and was greeted with the sight of the Fat Spider, as Varys was somewhat cruelly known as by people who didn't know better.

I did know better than that, of course. It is not without justification that spiders strike more fear than men. After all, what would be worse: a spider-sized man, or a man-sized spider?

"I do not know many kings who would concern themselves with books such as this."

I grimaced.

"A few years ago, I decided that it would be good to learn as much as I could about the female form as I could before my marriage. It was one of my more unfortunate errors of judgement."

Varys smiled, looking distinctly like an ulcer propped on human shoulders as he did so.

"But you learned nevertheless, Your Grace."

I waved my hand toward a chair. Varys sank into it with an eerie grace, almost comically weightless.

"Your Grace wished to speak to me so I rushed to your side, of course. I must admit that I was surprised by the nature of your summons. It was a novel method, to be sure."

Not an especially high bar to clear, but a bar nevertheless. I even detected a hint of admiration in those oddly-accented tones.

"Yes, well, the problem with having a network of spies, Lord Varys, is that there is no excuse for ignorance. You are aware of everything of importance that happens within these kingdoms, and I know that."

The best threats are left unspoken. 

Varys bowed his head, insofar as he could in his seat.

"I shall endeavour to remain vigilant in your service, Your Grace."

He straightened himself and met my gaze.

"What does Your Grace require of me?"

"Your honesty, to start with." I leaned forward. "You hold a unique position in my esteem, Lord Varys. I recognise your talents, and your value. However, I am unsure of your loyalty. I will not prostrate myself before you, nor will I make demands of you, but I will simply ask: You served Aerys Targaryen with distinction, I understand he trusted you greatly, and then you served my father, his mortal enemy, with equal capability. What motivated you to stay? Was it just to save your skin or did you see something in my father? Who do you serve, Lord Varys?"

Of course, I had considered the possibility that Varys still served the Targaryens in secret. The Mad King's children still lived in Essos, well within Varys' sphere of influence. Still, there was no need for Varys to be aware of that particular suspicion. Far better for him to respect me yet underestimate me all the same. 

Varys smiled slimily.

"Your Grace has an inquisitive mind, to be sure. I hardly know where to begin. I suppose I shall simply have to answer all of your questions at once. When I was marooned upon the streets of Lys, I saw that the wickedness of men extended far further than any septon would ever dare say. Babes abandoned in the mud, some with their heads caved in and others still alive, squealing in pain and fear and starvation. Little boys and little girls being used by sailors, then passed on to the drunkards, and then to the beggars and then the priests. Pressed up against the walls, pinned to the tables, waiting for it all to stop. Women dragged into alleyways, robbed and raped. Men butchered, carved apart, and then sold to street vendors. Slaves marched to death, their corpses crawling with unspeakable horror, rotting in the sun. I serve those people, and the realm in which they reside."

"Yet I sense that you do not seek to do so from a throne. Would that not serve them better?"

Varys scoffed. 

"I understand that Your Grace enjoys riddles, so allow me to share this one with you. In a room sit three great men, a king, a priest, and a rich man with his gold. Between them stands a sellsword, a little man of common birth and no great mind. Each of the great ones bids him slay the other two. ‘Do it,’ says the king, ‘for I am your lawful ruler.’ ‘Do it,’ says the priest, ‘for I command you in the names of the gods.’ ‘Do it,’ says the rich man, ‘and all this gold shall be yours.’ So tell me, Your Grace, who lives and who dies?"

I sat back. Riddles are annoying, but they usually teach you something.

"If true power resided with the king, there would be no rebels. If true power lay with the priest, miracles would occur daily. If true power lay with the rich, my grandfather would be emperor of the world. Power is an abstract concept. You ask a question to which the answer is different to every man. Since he is a sellsword, I would presume that he places greater stock in money, but I'm sure the answer is much more interesting than that." 

"A reasonable presumption, but you understand why I do not seek power for its own sake. Who would believe that power resides with a eunuch when a knight stands beside him? Who thinks a spider has power, when a king can squash him without a second thought? Power resides where men believe it resides, and it does not reside with me."

"Where do you believe it resides, then?"

Varys leaned forward with that vomitously saccarine smile.

"Information, Your Grace. For instance, the information that Lord Stark intends to depose you and hand the throne to Stannis."

My eyebrows shot up, though I kept my composure.

"Why in the Seven Hells would he do that?"

Eddard Stark was a naive fool, but he wasn't impulsive or an idiot. He would not do this without a reason. Varys sensed my confusion.

"I'm afraid that Lord Stark has been led astray by some ghastly rumours concerning your mother and Ser Jaime Lannister."

My eyes narrowed. This was news to me. I don't like news.

"What rumours?"

Varys hesitated. My patience thinned instantaneously.

"I asked for your honesty, Varys. Not your comfort or your pity, but your honesty. I expect it now."

He gave me a look as if to say 'Well, if you insist.'

"There are allegations - completely unfounded, of course - that your mother and your uncle were close as children - inappropriately so - and that this... activity continued into their maturity and even later into Queen Cersei's marriage to your father."

I didn't need to hear the rest.

"I assume that the culmination of this rumour is the revelation that myself and my siblings are the fruit of that union?"

Varys nodded solemnly.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and counted to ten, breathing out slowly.

"Is there any truth to the--" I waved my hand. "Actually, no. Don't tell me."

I stood up and stared out of the window across the city. I would deal with the issue of my blood some other time.

"How does Lord Stark intend to remove me from power?"

"He intends to take you and your family into custody, and invite Stannis to King's Landing."

"Stark's household guard is not sufficient to hold the Red Keep, and Sansa is already in my custody in Maegor's Holdfast. I have given orders for Arya to be taken too, if possible."

Of course, Varys would know these things already. 

"You were prepared to move against Lord Stark from the beginning."

There was no point denying it. I shrugged.

"Eddard Stark is many things, but a Lord Regent?" I shook my head. "No. I wanted to persuade him to return to Winterfell and enjoy a life of governing his own lands - with naked steel if needs be. If what you say is true, then I need to move quickly."

"Your Grace should not trouble himself so. As you quite rightly say, Stark does not have the numbers to remove you by himself. He has enlisted the help of Lord Baelish and Ser Janos Slynt."

The weight lifted from my shoulders. A sly weasel with ideas above his station, and a mole at the summit of that mountain of incompetence and corruption called the City Watch. I almost felt sorry for Ned Stark.

"The poor fool. I take it from the fact that you have told me of this even before Lord Baelish that I have your support?"

Varys stood and bowed, far further than his corpulent form would suggest was possible.

"I live to serve, Your Grace."

"Then I have only one instruction for you. Henceforth, you'll report to me alone. Not to the Small Council, not to the Hand of the King, and not, under any circumstances, to my mother. In return, I shall do everything in my power to be the king that the realm requires."

Varys tapped his nose and smiled knowingly.

"Those are most generous terms, Your Grace. Long live the King."


	4. Chapter 4

There are two things that prospective Kings of the Seven Kingdoms ought to know about the Iron Throne of Westeros.

Firstly, it is bloody massive. I had often wondered how on earth my increasingly more rotund father had ever managed to climb the steps of that gargantuan steel monstrosity, and that wonderment was even more profound once I had fulfilled that unpleasant task for the first time myself.

The second is that all the tales of its legendary uncomfortableness frankly fail to do the damnable grotesquery justice. Within five minutes I felt as though my spine had somehow detached from my pelvis and the gap between my ribs had expanded by another inch or two from my efforts to avoid the seemingly endless smorgasbord of spikes, jagged edges and lumps contained within. Aegon the Conqueror must have thought himself so clever when he uttered the famous phrase "A king should never sit easy." An absolutely correct statement, but did the man really have to take it this literally? I grunted quietly as I shifted my weight for the umpteenth time, trying to find a position which would allow me to maintain at least a thin veneer of dignified authority.

I peered down the stairs of the Iron Throne, and saw another of Aegon's legacies. Four knights of the Kingsguard stood to attention before the dais: Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Preston Greenwood, and Ser Boros Blount. What a colossal shame that the White Cloaks should be stained by such incompetence, complacency, sloth and worse. Only Ser Barristan and, ironically, Ser Jaime Lannister were worthy of their station. It was the first of many swamps that I would have to drain. Of course, there was the snag of the Kingsguards' vows, which are binding for life. Still, there are ways around that. 

The great oaken doors of the throne room slowly creaked open. Ned Stark limped into the room between the ranks of the City Watch, flanked by Janos Slynt, Varys and Littlefinger. It was not an impressive sight to behold.

"All hail his Grace," The royal steward crooned, "Joffrey of the House Baratheon, the first of his name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm." 

I dearly wanted to strangle the man. Everybody knows the damn titles. Titles are like keys: the more you wave them around, the more likely they are to be stolen. Stark's entourage came to a halt before the line of Kingsguard.

"I wish for preparations to be made immediately for my coronation, and for my marriage to the Lady Sansa of House Stark. I would have both within the moon's turn. Today, I will accept renewed oaths of fealty from my loyal councillors, and from those of noble birth who presently reside in the capital." 

Stark's face betrayed no emotion. He stared up at me for a few seconds before looking at Ser Barristan.

"Ser Barristan, I believe no man here could ever question your honour." 

He held out a scroll. Barristan took it and turned it over. 

"King Robert's seal -- unbroken."

He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

"Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm, to rule as regent until the heir come of age."

I stood quickly and held out my hand before my mother could speak. 

"May I see that?"

Barristan climbed the steps of the throne and handed it to me with a reverent expression on his face. If I had looked, I imagine I would have seen my mother seething as I seized her moment.

I took it and read it. 'Until the heir come of age.' Interesting wording. I would like to think my father would have at least mentioned my name.

"I can't help but notice, Lord Stark, that this is not my father's hand. In fact, unless I'm very much mistaken, it is yours."

Stark set his jaw.

"King Robert dictated his will to me. I merely recorded his words."

I nodded.

"I see. And was there anybody in the room with you to witness this?"

I don't consider myself a sadist, but it was mildly amusing to see Stark squirm.

"No."

I read the will again, then tore it in half, dropping the pieces to the floor. Ser Barristan looked on in shock.

"Those were the King's words, your Grace."

I looked down at the old knight with a sad frown. 

"They bore my father's seal, Ser Barristan. That does not make them his words."

The old knight nodded with a crestfallen expression. I looked back at Stark. 

"You're an honourable man, Lord Stark, so I will not be harsh on you. Bend the knee, my lord, and I will pardon this outburst. You may remain in the capital until I marry Sansa, and I will release you from your post as Hand of the King so you can return home and serve the crown as Warden of the North as you have served for so long."

Stark gathered himself and raised his voice.

"You have no claim to the throne."

"You condemn yourself with your own mouth, Lord Stark." My mother snipped from her chair, desperate to have a say.

"Ser Barristan, seize him." I commanded.

"Ser Barristan is a good man, a loyal man. Do him no harm." Stark's voice wavered with panicked urgency as his guards moved to shield him.

I scoffed.

"Do you believe he stands alone?" I asked rhetorically. "Clegane, present arms!"

The throne room filled with the sound of shivering steel as the Kingsguard, the Northmen and the Lannisters all drew their swords.

"Commander," Stark turned to Slynt. "Take the queen and her children into custody. Escort them to the royal apartments and keep them there, under guard."

"Men of the watch!" Slynt called out. 

Stark seemed galvanised by the spears which swung down behind him.

"I want no bloodshed." He called, "Tell you men to lay down their swords. No one needs to die."

The arrogance of a humble man is so unlike anything else. A rare animal, true, but not dangerous to anybody but itself. Stark's righteous confidence had given way to hubris. Varys slipped out from behind Lord Stark and crept around the aisles of City Watchmen to take his place beside the dais.

I shook my head. 

"I'm afraid that is not true, Lord Stark." 

Behind him, Slynt exchanged glances with my mother.

"Now!" Came the battle cry. The watchmen raised their spears and tore into the Northmen. Clegane charged forward and cut two men down.

Before Stark could even react, a blade appeared at his throat.

The crash of battle subsided as quickly as it had come. An eerie silence fell over the throne room as Littlefinger held his knife fast. 

I descended the steps of the Iron Throne.

"Clegane, Ser Janos, sweep the Red Keep. I want every Northman accounted for, dead or alive. Take Lord Stark to the Black Cells."

Stark stared at me as the City Watchmen seized him, shaken yet defiant.

"You won't win this fight, Joffrey. The North remembers."

I stopped alongside him, turning my head to look him the eyes.

"Good."


	5. Chapter 5

Every so often, a day comes along where I feel as though the gods had embarked upon a quest to drive me to madness. This was fast becoming one of those days.

I pinched the bridge of my nose hard and breathed out slowly, peering at the knight kneeling before me.

"Alright, just so I'm clear on this; I dispatched four highly-trained and well-armoured Lannister soldiers and a knight of the Kingsguard to apprehend a ten-year-old girl, whose only protection was a Braavosi dance teacher armed with a wooden sword, and you mean to tell me that you lost the girl? Have I got that right, Ser Meryn?"

Trant stared at this boots like a little boy being told off by his parents. I hissed with fury.

"Has your courage deserted you?! Has your tongue leapt from your throat?! You are a Kingsguard, ser!"

Not that he was worthy of the title.

Trant seemed to almost flinch at the force of my voice. His jowls trembled as he tried to scan the room and beseech his fellow knights for support without me noticing. 

Of course, I did notice. I sighed and turned away from him. 

"Remove your cloak, Ser Meryn."

I could have sworn that somebody gasped, and with that any noise in the room was suddenly sucked out.

Ser Meryn looked up in shock.

"Your Grace?"

So his tongue worked, but now his ears had failed him.

I peered up to address everybody in the room. All of the Kingsguard, bar Jaime Lannister and Arys Oakheart, were assembled in that room, and all looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

"I know what my father was. He was a drunken lout who had no idea how to rule. I know what Aerys Targaryen was. He was a madman who burned his subjects. The standards of kingship have slipped, and with them those of the Kingsguard. I intend to rectify that problem, and many others besides, but I cannot do that if I am looking over my shoulder every moment of my life. And so I must restore the Kingsguard, and return some semblance of honour to the White Cloak."

I gazed at each man individually, watching for any squirm or waver.

"However, there can only be seven of you - too many Kingsguard would be bothersome - and so I must cleanse it rather than inflate it. My standards are high, and you," I returned my gaze to the kneeling Ser Meryn, "do not meet them. The Kingsguard should consist of the best that the realm has to offer. Loras Tyrell will be a fine replacement for you."

Trant turned an impressively beet-like shade of red and lept to his feet.

"You think I'll allow myself to be disgraced by some pillow biter from the Reach?!"

I raised my eyebrow impassively.

"Do you think I will allow myself to be disgraced by a man who rapes little girls?" Trant paled as the other Kingsguard knights stared at him, "I suppose it doesn't matter now. I've made my decision. Remove your cloak and I'll leave you to whatever hovel you have lined up for you back home."

Of course, there was an aurochs in the room. I was waiting to see who would mention it first. It was Ser Preston Greenfield who obliged me.

"Your Grace, forgive me, but the Kingsguard's vows are for life. Only death relieves us of our duty." 

So now I knew who else was in my mother's pocket. Ser Meryn visibly relaxed.

I nodded slowly.

"Ah, yes. An excellent point, Ser Preston."

I turned to the knight in question and regarded him for a moment. Then, I shrugged.

"Clegane, kill him."

Sandor Clegane is nothing if not dutiful. Steel scraped, flesh was cut and armour crashed to the ground, and within seconds it was done.

I examined the corpse for a moment, then bent down to unclasp its cloak, and held it up. The white silk was flecked with crimson. It was eerily beautiful, in a morbid sort of way. I turned to Clegane and held it out to him.

His flinty eyes darted from me to the cloak to the corpse on the floor.

"I'm not a knight."

I snorted.

"Good. I don't need knights, Clegane. Knights have betrayed and lied and cheated, just like the rest of us. I need warriors now."

He stared at the cloak for a second, then grunted and wrapped it around himself.

I turned back to the other Kingsguard, all of whom seemed to be in varying degrees of shock.

"I won't punish honest mistakes, but I expect you all to live up to the cloaks which you wear and the oaths which you took. I also expect you to keep your... nocturnal activites within the realms of common decency. You should serve as an example to others. Your loyalty is mine, and mine alone. Have I made myself clear?"

One by one, they all nodded.

"Return to your stations."

As the knights began to file out, I sat down in a chair.

"Ser Barristan, remain."

The old knight looked almost queasy as he glanced at the corpse and approached me.

"Speak freely, ser."

He gathered himself.

"Is it true that Ser Meryn...?"

I nodded sympathetically.

"Unfortunately, yes. I'm told that he would visit brothels and pursue young serving girls, rather than the whores who were offered to him."

Ser Barristan grimaced, but also seemed reassured.

"Then he was not fit to wear the cloak. All Kingsguard must suffer temptation, some might even succumb to it - for that I cannot judge - but to violate children is another matter."

The door opened then, and two servants entered and began removing the corpse. I almost smiled; Varys was indeed quick to act.

"Nevertheless, we must obscure this truth. When you take the time to record this sorry episode in the White Book, let it be known to history that Ser Meryn Trant died valiantly defending his king from treason. That is the tale we will tell his family as well. It would not look good for me to be seen killing my own Kingsguard, no matter how justified I may have been in doing so."

He nodded slowly, visibly swallowing his honour. I knew what I was asking him to do was difficult. Honour to a good man is perversely similar to money to a rich man: the more of it they possess, the more obsessively they will hoard it. Eddard Stark suffered from the same heroic flaw. Ser Barristan would require careful handling and attention in order to allow him to believe that his honour would not choke him.

"Why did you give Clegane the cloak? Why not Loras Tyrell as you said?"

One would think that he had never met a liar before.

"Ser Loras Tyrell is, as Ser Meryn so delicately put it, a pillow biter. That in itself is not a problem, he is a fine knight regardless of his personal preferences; unfortunately, the pillow he bites happens to be that of Renly Baratheon, who is currently preparing to openly revolt against the crown. Besides, Clegane is far easier to control than any Tyrell would ever be. He is not of great noble stock, his family are Lannister bannermen, and he has no interest in politics; none of these things are true of House Tyrell. I also require men who are personally loyal to me. My mother has her claws in every matter of court, including the Kingsguard. I need to limit her influence as much as I can without directly acting against her - at least until I have reasonable cause to do so. I can afford to be patient, so long as the Kingsguard is both competent and loyal. I believe that I have made significant progress to that end today, but I need your help to ensure that that progress does not go to waste."

I stood up and examined my clothes.

"I don't have any blood on me, do I?"

The question snapped Ser Barristan out of whatever reverie he might have developed. He gave me a once-over.

"No, Your Grace."

I straightened my tunic.

"That's good. I'm about to have a very difficult conversation with my betrothed. Bloodstains don't tend to reassure young women."

I probably imagined it, but I could have sworn that the corners of the old knight's lips twitched.

### 

I walked briskly through the halls of Maegor's Holdfast, the corridors lined with Lannister men. Ser Arys Oakheart stood stoically outside the main chambers. Ser Arys was the most approachable of the Kingsguard by some distance. While not a particularly intelligent man by any stretch, he was good-looking and polite, with enough humility to make his presence a relatively easy thing to tolerate, and his demeanour made him the best at handling children. I harboured some hope for him. He could claim to be an acceptable Kingsguard. Perhaps, when he heard of the fate of his Sworn Brother, he would be motivated to improve himself.

In the meantime, however, I barely paid him any mind as I pushed open the door to the chambers and stepped in to see Myrcella and Tommen curled up on a futon together, reading - or, more accurately, Myrcella reading a book out loud while Tommen stared at the pictures and fidgeted occasionally.

"Tommen, you should listen to Myrcella. She's trying to teach you something."

Tommen peered over the back of the chair at me much like a little lordling might look at a septon after he made a mistake with his numbers.

"Sorry, Joffrey. It's just that Myrcella's books are all so boring."

Myrcella sniffed.

"It's a book about animals, Tommen. It could be a lot worse. Besides, you love reading."

Tommen crossed his arms.

"Yes, but I like books that have stories, with big castles and knights and dragons."

I chuckled and ruffled his hair. 

"Alright, why don't you go to Ser Arys and ask him if he'll let you get some books from my chamber? I'd rather you read something than nothing at all."

The illusion of choice is a seductive one. My books did contain big castles and knights and dragons, but they didn't contain mere stories.

Tommen beamed and practically bounced out of the room.

Myrcella watched him leave with a bemused expression.

"He's bored. You've holed us in here while you get to have all the fun."

I rolled my eyes and picked up a jug of wine.

"You know why I have to keep you here, Myrcella. Drop the simple little sister act. I know how clever you are."

She narrrowed her eyes at me.

"And you think you're cleverer. You think you're cleverer than everyone."

I poured a cup and held it out to her.

"I repudiate that accusation entirely. I have never claimed to be cleverer than everyone; I simply haven't met anyone who might prove me wrong if I were to do so."

Myrcella snorted into her cup. I grinned at her cockily. She pointed a finger at me.

"You're bossy."

I snickered.

"Crow calls the raven black."

She pouted.

"Father was right about you; you really are an insufferable know-it-all."

I sipped my wine, smiling.

"That's good. Know-it-alls make good kings."

She patted my arm.

"I know. I just don't want your head to get too big and pop on the Iron Throne."

I patted her on the head in retort.

"Never fear, dear sister. I'll always have you to bring me down a few notches."

She waved her hand and bowed her head mockingly.

"At your service, Your Grace."

I glanced at the only closed door in the room. Myrcella saw it and sighed.

"She won't come out. Not even for food."

I drained my cup in one go.

"She'll come out for me."

I crossed the room and knocked firmly on the door. A squeak came from within, and then a cry.

"Go away!"

I turned the handle but the door was locked. I glanced back at Myrcella, who smirked and gave two thumbs-up. I glared at her and responded with a two-finger salute.

"Sansa, it's me. Open the door now."

Another squeak, and the door rattled and opened.

Sansa shied backwards. Her face was red and splotchy and her hair was slightly dishevilled. 

"Your Grace, I swear I had no idea what my father was planning, he never told us anything, just to pack our things and get ready to leave, I swear I didn't want to g--"

She squealed as her legs hit the bed and she fell on it with a small whimper.

I closed the door behind me.

"Sit up, Sansa."

She obeyed me, and flinched as I sat beside her. I shushed her softly and cupped her face in my hands.

"You're going to be my queen. You shouldn't be cowering from anyone, let alone from me."

Her eyes widened. 

"You mean...?"

I kissed her firmly on the lips.

"Yes, we're still going to be married. And what did I tell you about calling me 'Your Grace'?"

She giggled a little tearfully, but the brightness had returned to her eyes. 

"Sorry, Joffrey."

I grinned and kissed her again, this time lingering for a bit longer. I pulled back and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Your father is in the Black Cells." 

Her face fell, I lifted her up by the chin. 

"Can I see him?"

I sighed.

"Not right now. I don't want you going down there on your own. When I have time, we'll go and see him together. I want to speak to him as well."

She nodded, sniffling slightly.

"Are you going to kill him?"

I held her by the shoulders.

"No harm will come to him. I promise."

She wrapped her arms around my neck really very tightly.

"Thank you." She whispered.

"Of course." I grunted. "But I need something in return." She pulled away, nodding furiously.

"Anything, Your Gr-- I mean, Joffrey."

"I need you to write to your brother. Tell him what has happened and that I want him to come here so that we can speak face to face."

Sansa frowned.

"I already wrote to my brother. The Queen asked me to write to him for her. She told me what to say and everything."

Life - or rather my mother - vomits upon my riding boots once more. My mother's talent for diplomacy was as absent as her talent for incompetence was prodigious.

I contained my horror and looked Sansa in the eye.

"Sansa, tell me everything."


	6. Chapter 6

I resisted the urge to kick down the door to my mother's chambers. It would not be kingly, and it would also resemble a tantrum. I knew that any sign of madness, any sign of ineptitude or unsuitability, and my enemies would multiply like rabbits. Besides, a show of power does not have to be violent; it can be simple, even quiet, but it must above all things be irreverent in the extreme.

I entered her chambers without knocking on the door.

I've often thought that a bedroom will tell you a lot about its occupants. Thus far my theory seemed to hold some truth. My mother had a habit of ignoring that which she did not like to see; naturally, therefore, she had decided to simply ignore the fact that she was married to a Baratheon when decorating her own private chamber. There wasn't a single black object in that room. Not even a picture of a stag. There was plenty of gold, of course: banners, bedspreads, basins, gowns, jewellery -- you get the point. Even the bloody furniture was made from solid gold. I'd always cringed internally at the sheer uselessness of such excess. There is a difference between a comfortable life and an unnecessarily extravagant one. My mother would have used a solid gold privy if she could. True, Lannisters did have a practically unique connection (ahem, addiction) to gold, but matters of personal hygeine are surely a step too far.

At that moment, thankfully, my mother was not shitting into a pot of pure gold, but sitting at her table with a not insignificantly-sized jug of wine, and sat oppposite her was Grand Maester Pycelle. I didn't trust Pycelle, but not because he seemed clever. In fact, it was the opposite; it was impossible that a man this incompetent and lacking in vitality should have served under the Mad King and survived to tell the tale, even taking into account his prodigious gift for sycophancy and his age. It was even more impossible that he should have remained in my grandfather's service after that. Tywin Lannister may have had an ego the size of Casterly Rock, but he knew a sycophant when he saw one, and he did not suffer such fools easily. No, Pycelle was clearly hiding something.

But now was not the time to unravel that particular mystery.

"Pycelle, leave us."

The old fool looked like he might hesitate, but nodded submissively and wobbled to his feet. I listened to him shuffle past me, his chains clinking irritatingly along with his steps. 

"Now!"

I was too annoyed to smile as Pycelle yelped and redoubled his efforts to slowly leave the room as quickly as possible.

My mother, on the other hand, was suppressing her facial expressions rather less successfully. She shifted her jaw from side to side to stop a large grin spreading across her face.

"You really should be more gentle with Pycelle, his bladder isn't as strong as it once was."

I breathed out through my nose.

"I'd rather have a Grand Maester who pisses himself than a mother who pisses on my plans."

She had the bare-faced cheek to look offended.

"I've been trying to help you." 

I blinked.

"By virtually destroying any chance we had of reconciling with the Starks without a war?" She raised her eyebrow, "Sansa told me everything."

She scoffed.

"You care too much about that girl."

So she did get some things right.

"That's beside the point. Last week, I was the heir to seven kingdoms. Yesterday, I had five. Now, thanks to you, I have two. And the Dornish despise us, so let's just be realistic and say I have one. King of the One Kingdom doesn't sound quite so formidable, does it?"

I sat down and leaned over the table, staring at her.

"You are overly concerned about the Starks, my sweet. Robb Stark is the acting Warden of the North, and he is not a threat to us."

"Robb Stark is not an idiot, Mother. He'll know whose words are on that paper, and he will call his banners. Even if you don't think the Starks are a threat to us, you must realise that twenty thousand Northmen are."

"And they will fall on twenty thousand Lannister swords."

She still didn't get the bloody point.

"And what about Stannis and Renly? When those twenty thousand Lannister swords are all pointed north, who defends the south? Us? We had to borrow men from Ned Stark just to police the capital."

"That would be a much smaller problem if you stopped killing members of your own Kingsguard."

Ah, so she knew about that. Ser Preston really was a dutiful informer.

"Well, the next time you decide to put a sexual deviant in a White Cloak, at least make sure he's competent and I won't have to." I snapped.

An uneasy silence fell between us. Another good way to find the measure of a person is how well they react to silence. I twiddled my thumbs patiently. My mother, on the other hand, did not possess such restraint.

"There are other ways to resolve this. You are overestimating the Northmen: send the Starks north and they will retreat back into their caves."

I wanted to laugh, and cry, and throw my chair out of the window. No wonder my father turned to drink.

"I'm not overestimating anything, Mother. Do you think the Northerners are going to just settle down once we hand over the Starks? The North is different to the other kingdoms; it was only the dragons keeping the North loyal and now the dragons are dead. Then it was Ned Stark's friendship with Father, and now he's dead. If we don't show strength to the Starks, we will lose the North." I stood and leaned over the table, "And while Grandfather is fighting the war you just started in the Riverlands, Stannis will be sailing up the fucking Blackwater, and Renly will be riding up the fucking Roseroad, and we" I snatched her glass from her grasp, wine splatting across the table, and smashed it on the wood, "Will be dragged by our ankles through the streets and burned alive." 

She brushed an imaginary piece of dirt from her gown distractedly.

"We don't need the North. Let them go. Those savages contribute nothing to the rest of the kingdoms."

You'd think the penny was falling down a bottomless pit, it was taking so long to drop.

"You're right," She looked up at me in surprise. To be fair, I hadn't expected myself to say those words either, "we could do without the North. But what happens when the Dornish decide that they want independence, and they look at the North and see that we let them go when they kicked up a little fuss? We don't have any Dornish hostages, we don't have any footholds even close to Dorne. There will be nothing to stop them. Then the Iron Islands, then the Reach, and before long, I will have nothing. That is why I can't let the North go."

Yet.

My mother sniffed.

"So, what do you plan to do?"

I snorted.

"Do you really expect me to tell you? I didn't come here to plot with you, Mother. I came here to make myself clear." I stepped around the table and leaned over her. "I will not be stopped. Not by you, or the Starks, or the Baratheons, or _anyone._ I will do whatever I must to ensure that this kingdom stays together, and I will not tolerate your interference. You will be allowed to remain in the capital because you are my mother, but you will do so quietly, and if I discover the slightest whiff of treason, I will ensure that you live out your days in a sisterhood."

I turned and walked from the room.

"You are the widow of a dead king, nothing more."

### 

I walked back to Maegor's Holdfast, my feet feeling heavier with each step. I blinked one eye, then the other, then both, yawning. Night had long since fallen, and my path was lit only by candles and torches. I hadn't slept properly since before my father died, I realised, rubbing my eyes. I half-walked, half-trudged up to my chamber and rested my head against the door. I sighed and looked at the door next to mine. Sansa's.

Oh, to the hells with it.

I knocked gently on the door.

Sansa opened it sleepily. Her eyes widened when she saw that it was me. Her brow furrowed in concern.

"Joffrey... It's late. Is something wrong?"

I shook my head with a small smile.

"No, I just wanted to know if you wanted some company."

Sansa laughed quietly.

"Are you really here because you think I might want your company, or is it because you want my company and you're just too proud to ask?"

I pouted. 

Damn. She had me there.

She raised her eyebrows smugly, and stepped backwards into the chamber.

"It's not appropriate, you know."

I followed her inside.

"Fuck appropriate."

She giggled and fell back onto her bed. In the dim candlelight, she barely seemed real, her copper hair fanned out behind her, her skin barely distinguishable from the sheets and the nightgown she wore. She looked like a beautiful ghost. 

I grinned and sat down beside her, bracing myself on my arm so that I could look down at her.

"Go on, say it."

She shook her head.

"It's not ladylike."

I tapped her nose.

"You're not a lady anymore. You're a queen."

She reached up.

"Not yet." 

She tapped my nose to punctuate each syllable.

I chuckled.

"Alright, you're not the queen yet. But I am the king, and I can still tell you what to do."

I looked down at her pointedly.

She rolled her eyes, even as a blush spread from her chest up to her neck and face. She took a deep breath and stammered:

"F-fuck appropriate!"

She covered her face and descended into a fit of giggles.

I laughed and settled down next to her, pulling her into my embrace. I pressed a kiss to the back of her neck.

"See, was that so hard?"

She hummed contentedly.

I rested my hand on her stomach, letting my fingers spread out and feel the warmth beneath her gown.

"I fear that Your Grace will get quite hot if you sleep with your clothes on. Perhaps you could remove them and join me under the covers?"

I smirked.

"Is that my lady's command?"

"It is. I promise to close my eyes if Your Grace is too embarassed."

I poked her gently in the ribs.

"Not at all, I simply wouldn't want to spoil any of the surprises that await my lady on our wedding night."

Sansa stayed true to her word and kept her eyes closed as she pulled the covers over herself.

I peeled off my clothes and climbed under with her, reclaiming her in my arms. Her skin became even warmer to the touch as she settled back into my chest.

She looked up at me over her shoulder, smiling.

"This is better, don't you think?"

I craned my neck downwards to kiss her tenderly.

"I have a Small Council meeting in the morning, then I'll come back for you and we can go to see your father after luncheon."

She nodded.

"Thank you."

She giggled as I opened my mouth and yawned.

"Just let your head down and rest, my love."

I obeyed, and barely a moment after my head had settled into the pillow did sleep take me.


	7. Chapter 7

I hadn't attended many meetings of the Small Council in my youth. Not because I thought it was beneath me, or because they weren't interesting, but because I had very quickly realized that I wasn't going to learn competent governance from a Small Council which was bound to obey Robert Baratheon's commands. Unfortunately, I was consequently left unprepared for exactly how much of a state the realm was in.

"Six _million_ golden dragons."

Nobody else said anything. I glared at them one by one. At this point it would have more apt to call it the Tiny Council. Only Varys, Littlefinger, Pycelle, and Janos Slynt remained at the table. I had excused Ser Barristan from attending. I knew he didn't care for governance, nor was he suited to it.

"How did this happen?"

Varys was the first to open his mouth.

"With the deepest respect, Your Grace --"

I pointed my finger at him.

"No, no, no. I don't want to hear 'with the deepest respect,' I want to know how this council allowed my father to accrue six million gold dragons in debt."

"We are merely a Small Council, Your Grace. The king commands and we must obey."

"You are the King's advisors. Do I take this to mean that you did not advise my father, or Jon Arryn for that matter, that there was a problem with the Treasury?" 

I turned to Littlefinger. 

"Lord Baelish, you are the Master of Coin. The Treasury is your responsibility, and given that it is empty, I would say that you have not done a particularly good job."

He frowned.

"Your Grace, surely you must understand that the Treasury provides the money, and the King spends it, regardless of our guidance, or indeed that of Lord Arryn. Even Lord Stark was not averse to excess expenditure."

I nodded. 

"Yes, but surely the Master of Coin should be able to tell the King that the Treasury is empty, and that the King should not be three million dragons in debt to his own generals?" I held my hand up before he could speak. "Never mind. It's done, and now we must repair the damage."

Littlefinger opened up his book of accounts.

"The outlook is not good, Your Grace. We have lost taxes from all of the rebel Kingdoms, as well as a great deal of trade from the Free Cities due to the uncertainty regarding the Narrow Sea. Nevertheless, the Iron Bank has indicated that they are willing to back us."

I scoffed. 

"So you want me to get out of some of my debt by getting into more debt, all the while my other debt is getting even bigger and my incomes are diminishing?"

Littlefinger at least had the decency to look mildly sheepish.

"Anyway, the Iron Bank doesn't really back us. They're betting on a horse race. They'll give a loan to Stannis, then a slightly bigger loan to me, then another one to Renly and on and on it will go until someone wins. I've bet on horse races before, Lord Baelish, and the one thing I learned is that you never beat the gambling house. The Iron Bank of Braavos is the biggest gambling house of all."

"Your Grace is most wise, but armies need to be paid for, and we have no coin. We could raise taxes within the loyal Kingdoms; call it a necessity of war."

I turned to Slynt.

"Lord Slynt, how do you believe that Lord Baelish's proposal would be received by the smallfolk?"

Slynt blanched at the prospect.

I looked back at Littlefinger.

"I think that answers that question. I have a better idea."

They looked at me with a mixture of surprise and interest. I might have been offended by that.

"Lord Baelish, I want you to conduct an audit of the Crown's property, starting with the Red Keep. Work out the value of every single thing in the castle, and work out what can be sold and replaced with something cheaper."

He frowned.

"Surely that will cause some difficulty at court?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Call it a necessity of war." 

Varys smirked.

"Besides," I grinned, "you won't be that much worse off, Lord Baelish. You're richer than I am."

There are few things in life which please me more than embarrassing confident men. He even _blushed_.

"Of course, Your Grace."

"Excellent. Those savings will go toward the defence of the city. Start with my mother's chambers. A few gold buckets might need cleaning out, but it's a start. I'd like to take a few more measures outside the capital but we can deal with that at a later date. Let us move on to the matter of the brothers Baratheon and the Starks."

Varys pulled a bundle of small scrolls from his sleeves.

"My little birds in the Stormlands inform me that Renly Baratheon has arrived at Storm's End. The Tyrell army stands behind him, with all the retainers, bannermen, and resources of the Reach, along with a majority of the lords in the Stormlands. The remaining Stormlords have declared for Stannis, who masses his army, such as it is, at Dragonstone. As for the Starks, the whole North has rallied behind them as expected, as have the majority of the Riverlords. Reports suggest that the Stark armies have already passed through the Twins."

That was a blow.

"Walder Frey let them through? The Late Walder Frey?"

Varys nodded.

I sighed.

"Walder Frey is an untrustworthy man, and you can usually trust an untrustworthy man to be untrustworthy. In fact, the second an untrustworthy man becomes trustworthy, you should trust him even less, because if you can't trust an untrustworthy man to be untrustworthy then what can you trust him to be?"

I looked around at my councillors. Varys and Littlefinger both grinned, catching on to what I was doing. Slynt, unsurpisingly, scrunched up his face in confusion, trying to work out what I'd just said. Interestingly, though, Pycelle seemed to be pondering the question, which of course meant that he'd understood it. Not quite the senile dolt he pretended to be after all.

"An interesting rhetorical question, Your Grace, but Lord Walder has not become a man of principle overnight. It would appear that Robb Stark has offered certain... benefits, in exchange for his cooperation."

"Such as?"

Varys unrolled one of his scrolls.

"Olyvar Frey is to be taken as a squire to Robb Stark, thereafter to be knighted. Furthermore, Walder Frey and... Walder Frey," I raised my eyebrows, to which he shrugged, "are to be taken as wards at Winterfell. Arya Stark will marry Elmar Frey - Lord Walder's youngest - when she is recovered. Finally, Robb Stark will marry a Frey girl of his choosing."

Ouch.

"So, he's whored himself off for a bridge." And you all thought my marriage was a bad idea, "Well, at least that means he can't make a marriage alliance with another great house."

"Quite so, Your Grace, but the Stark armies are making swift progress toward Riverrun. Lord Tywin is unlikely to wish to take up a seat on this council until the war is won in the Riverlands."

"I'll have to offer him the position anyway; he'll be grievously insulted if I don't."

Varys nodded and tucked the scroll back into his sleeve.

Littlefinger leaned forward.

"Your Grace, there is also the issue of Eddard Stark."

I waved my hand.

"I will deal with Eddard Stark. Now, Varys, is there any prospect of the Brothers Baratheon uniting against us?"

"Stannis is adamant that he is the rightful king and Renly is adamant that he is the rightful king. Needless to say, they're both wrong, but it does make a long-term alliance between them an unworkable situation - unless one submits to the other, of course."

I mulled it over for a few moments.

"We can afford to be patient. If Renly kneels to Stannis, the Tyrells will abandon him; they only support him because he will put the Lady Margaery on the Iron Throne. If Stannis kneels to Renly, he will not do so without a fight. In fact, I wager he'd rather die. Either way, it is unlikely that the winner of such a contest will be in a position to attack us immediately. We can then trust Lord Tywin to conclude the war in the Riverlands quickly, and bring his armies to bear in the Stormlands."

Slynt frowned.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but are you suggesting that we do nothing?"

I gave him my most unnerving smile.

"No, Lord Slynt, I am merely suggesting that we sit back and enjoy the show. Perhaps you have a better suggestion?"

Slynt's jowls wobbled as he struggled for an answer in the face of my withering gaze.

"And I'm not saying that we do nothing besides that either." I turned to Littlefinger, "Lord Baelish, I want you to see if you can predispose Mace Tyrell more favourably to us. Massage his pride, tell him we aren't looking forward to facing him in battle and that we do so wish that he was on our side. Indeed, should we defeat Lord Renly in the field, I dearly hope that he survives; his service would be quite invaluable."

Littlefinger looked at me slyly.

"Your Grace, do you believe I have the means to deliver such a message?"

I chuckled.

"Of course not, Lord Baelish. I know you do, and you will do it personally."

His eyes widened. He scrambled for a response for a few seconds before relaxing and grinning.

"Do I have your permission to offer him certain incentives for his eventual support?"

"Such as?"

"I had thought that Lord Tyrell might more swayed by promises than by praise. Promises of a marital nature for instance."

Varys leaned forward.

"I think what Lord Baelish is trying to say, Your Grace, is that the Tyrells might be more amenable to our overtures if we could offer a marriage to the Crown in exchange for their support."

I ground my teeth. The temerity, the nerve, the sheer bloody _cheek_ to make such a suggestion.

"No."

Varys blinked.

"Your Grace, with all due respect, Margaery Tyrell is a quite excellent match for you and, if the rumours about Renly's afflictions are true, she should still be unbesmirched in the eyes of the Maiden."

A eunuch giving lectures on the marital bed. The world is a strange place.

I glared at him.

"That has absolutely nothing to do with this and you know it, Varys. My marriage is not a concern of the Small Council."

"Alas, Your Grace, you are the King. Your very life is _the_ primary concern of the Small Council."

"We must all make sacrifices in the service of the Realm," Pycelle, that great authority on sacrifice, simpered from his chair, "If Your Grace is concerned about your betrothal to Sansa Stark, I have already consulted the High Septon. His Holiness shares the opinion of this council: that due to the treason inflicted upon the Crown by the Starks, an end to the betrothal would not only be reasonable in the view of the law, but also pleasing to the Gods."

I ground my teeth some more.

"His Holiness would be wise to devote more attention to the prostitutes in his bed than the scripture on his desk. I'll hear no more of this. Lord Baelish, you have my commands and you will carry them out to the letter, and I invite all of you to keep your thoughts about the suitability of my betrothed to yourselves. Now, get out of my sight."

I took several deep breaths as they left the rooms in varying degrees of haste and dignity. Once I had calmed down sufficiently, I looked out of the window. By the looks of it, it was already past noon, and so I was late for luncheon with Sansa. I stood and stalked through the corridors of the Red Keep, barely registering the presence of the Kingsguard who escorted me.

Sansa was sat at the dining table in the royal appartments. She started as I burst through the door and jumped to her feet.

"Joffrey, wh--"

I cut her off by taking her face in my hands and kissing her hard, trapping her between my body and the table as I pulled her into me. She tensed briefly, then relaxed and laid her hands over mine. 

I pulled away.

"Sorry about that."

Sansa breathed out heavily.

"Um... I take it your council meeting was frustrating?"

I nodded and sat down.

"Everything is worse than I expected. We're going to have to cut down expenses."

Sansa climbed into my lap and reached behind me.

"Well, we'd better make the most of what we have now."

She held a strawberry up to me. I shook my head.

"I don't like strawberries."

She frowned.

"I've seen you eating strawberry cakes."

"Those are cakes. You love lemon cakes, but you wouldn't eat a lemon."

She rolled her eyes and popped it into her mouth, humming theatrically as she ate it.

"What else did they say?"

I sighed.

"They tried to convince me to break our betrothal. They even went to the High Septon behind my back."

I had expected to see worry, perhaps even fear in her eyes as I said that. Instead, I saw only indignation. She was learning fast.

"Why would they do that?"

"Varys wants me to marry Margaery Tyrell, to bring the Reach back into the fold, and Pycelle is my mother's pet, and she despises you, so he wants me to marry anyone whose name isn't Stark."

"And Lord Baelish?"

I shook my head.

"I don't know what Littlefinger wants, apart from power. But then again, who doesn't in this city? I can't put my finger on him."

"What will you do?"

I shrugged.

"I've sent him to negotiate with the Tyrells personally. That will remove him from the capital for a time. Pycelle isn't a threat on his own, even though I think he's hiding something. As for Varys, I need him. He's as intelligent as I am, and he can put spies in places I can't. We have an understanding: he will remain loyal as long as I act in the interests of the realm, which basically just means not going mad."

"And you trust him?"

I scoffed.

"Of course not, but there's no point trying to mislead somebody who knows everything. Besides, it is necessary to get behind someone before you can stab them in the back. I intend to keep facing Varys and Littlefinger at all times... and have you facing everyone else."

She did a double-take, her jaw opening slightly.

"Me? You trust me that much?"

I took her hand, intertwining our fingers

"Of course I trust you that much. It wouldn't make for a happy marriage if I didn't."

She shook her head.

"No, I mean I don't know how to keep track of anybody. I-I have no idea where to start."

"It's perfectly straightforward, Sansa." I held up one finger. "The first rule of politics is that everybody wants something. You know all the easy ones: power, money, prestige and so on. Most people want one of the easy ones, so you watch them. You find out what they're doing and you ask yourself what they acheive by doing whatever it is that they're doing. With me so far?"

She nodded.

"Good. Take my mother for example. This morning she tried to send a letter to my grandfather. In it, she tells him that I am out of control and that he must come to the city at once to rein me in. What do you think of that?"

She frowned.

"But, that's not true... Is it?"

I put up another finger.

"Second rule of politics: nobody cares about the truth. Now, what does my mother want?"

She nibbled on her bottom lip thoughtfully.

"Well, she's probably hoping that Lord Tywin comes to the capital and restores her to the regency."

"Exactly, which brings me onto the third rule. Do nothing that makes you look weak, unless it is beneficial to do so. Perception is everything. So, with that in mind, why do you think I allowed that letter to be sent?"

She thought about it for a few moments, then her eyes widened.

"Because it makes her look like she's lost control."

Which, of course, she had.

"And now my grandfather knows who holds the power in King's Landing. Now I look strong to him and weak to her. That means that he will pay more attention to me and she will underestimate me. So, you see, politics is not so difficult after all."

I tapped her nose with my third finger. She still seemed unsure, so I pecked her on the lips.

"Don't worry, I will help you."

She nodded and I kissed her again.

"Let's go. Bring some food and water. I don't think the Black Cells have a kitchen."

### 

The door of the cell swung open with a groan, as though it too had suffered unspeakable torture in the depths beneath the Red Keep. 

I stepped through the gap, my hand leading Sansa along with me. 

"Lord Stark?"

In my other hand, I waved a torch in the blackness. A faint clinking echoed through the cell as we stepped further inside.

"Father?" Sansa called.

There was a shuffle, then a voice responded.

"Sansa?"

Sansa snatched the torch from me and led me after the voice, until we came across the haggard form of Ned Stark.

"Father!"

She let go of my hand and rushed to kneel beside him, throwing her arms around him. It took him a few seconds to reciprocate, as if he wasn't sure if she was really there.

"Sansa, what are you doing here? They- Cersei hasn't-?"

"My mother won't be throwing anybody into the Black Cells anytime soon, Lord Stark. Sansa wanted to see you."

He started at the sound of my voice, and looked up at me stonily.

Sansa placed a basket next to him.

"We brought you some food."

He looked down at the basket and then back at me doubtfully. Sansa read his expression.

"Joffrey isn't going to poison you, Father. He's the one who agreed to let me see you."

Stark nodded stiffly.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

He looked around.

"Where is Arya?"

"Escaped. I have men searching for her."

Stark glared up at me angrily.

"If you hurt her, I swear before gods and men that I'll--"

I held my hand up.

"No harm will come to your daughters under my watch, Lord Stark. You have my word."

He swallowed thickly, but nodded.

"What of the others? My household guard?"

"Dead to a man."

Anger flashed in his eyes.

"You won't get away with this, Joffrey."

I raised my eyebrows.

"I haven't."

"Robb is marching south."

His head snapped around to face her.

"He what?"

She nodded, biting her lip.

"That's why we need you to confess your treason. It will allow us to surrender you to Robb without losing the North."

Stark shook his head.

"I will not."

Sansa looked taken aback. 

"Why?"

He smiled up at me.

"Because he can't kill me. Not while Tyrion Lannister is in our custody."

I smiled back at him, and a flicker of doubt flashed across his face.

"My uncle is no longer in your wife's hands."

Stark froze for a moment, then sank back against the wall.

"Then slit my throat and be done with it."

"No!" Sansa took hold of his collar and buried her head in his shoulder. "Please, no."

I cleared my throat.

"I'm not going to kill you, Lord Stark. I need your help."

Stark looked away.

"I will not abandon my honour just to ease your conscience, Joffrey."

He put his hands on Sansa's shoulders to push her away, and looked at her sadly.

"Go, Sansa. Leave me here. You don't have to die."

Tears dripped down her cheeks.

"I don't want to go without you. I want us all to go home, just like you told us."

He shook his head.

"I can't, sweetling. Go now. I love you."

Sansa looked up at me in despair. I simply nodded and stepped to one side. She got up slowly, painfully, and trudged toward the open cell door.

"Sansa." Stark called. She turned. "The lone wolf dies,"

"But the pack survives." She responded, and left the cell.

Stark turned back to me, his eyes glistening.

"Why are you still here?"

"I won't take no for an answer."

“You think my life is some precious thing to me?”

I scoffed and crouched beside him.

“No, of course not. But what about your family? What about Sansa?”

Stark paled. 

“You vowed not to hurt her.”

“And I will keep that vow. There are many instruments of death which are quite painless. That mercy will not extend to the rest of your family, however. Arya is so fierce, I’m sure many would greatly relish breaking her, myself included, and I can't help if she were to fall into the hands of, say, Gregor Clegane. Once I’ve reduced her to nothing but a husk, I’ll dump her in some whorehouse. A Stark should fetch a high price for those who can afford to pay. Robb will be slain in some battle, no doubt. I won’t have him buried; he’ll be left on some road for the horses to trample and the worms to crawl upon. Your other sons I’ll hang, but first I’ll ask Roose Bolton if he still knows how to flay a man. Your wife will witness all of this, and then I will hand her over to Littlefinger in chains. That ought to buy his loyalty - at least for a little while. And then, in ten years, when all these things have come to pass, you will still be alive, and I will bring them to you, you will see them, and I will ask you if your honour was worth it.”

Stark looked up at me stonily.

“I don’t believe that you would do that.” The almost imperceptible waver in his voice belied his words.

I snorted. Even after all this time, Ned Stark still didn’t know how to deal with liars.

“Please, Lord Stark. Give me the word. You’d be doing me a favour. Do you think I’m marrying Sansa out of the goodness of my heart? Because she will aid me in the struggle against my enemies? No; I could marry Margaery Tyrell and have the swords of the Reach in my hand by the moon’s turn. I am marrying Sansa because she will make me happy, but if I have to sacrifice my happiness to secure the kingdoms, so be it.”

I pulled a quill and some parchment out of my pocket and placed them next to him, then stood and walked to the cell door, leaving the torch burning in the bracket above his head.

“Did Varys ever ask you his little riddle?” I asked, not really expecting him to respond. To be honest, Varys probably never asked him. He probably had no idea what I was talking about. “I think it’s his favourite. His eyes lit up as he told it. It’s funny, you know. He thinks he knows the answer: ‘Power resides where men believe it resides,’ he says. Well, he may think that, but it isn’t the rich man or the king or even the priest who has ultimate power in that room but the sellsword, because it is the sellsword who survives, every time. I hold power over you, Lord Stark, because I know that I will survive this. I don’t know if you will, though. I await your decision.”


	8. Chapter 8

"Your Grace?"

I glanced up from my book. A servant hovered around the door of my chamber.

"Yes?"

"A holy brother is here to see you. He says he has been sent by the High Septon himself."

I sighed and closed my book. Will nobody rid me of this troublesome septon?

"Alright, send him in."

The servant nodded and receded from view. I sat up straight and put on my most welcoming face. I both admired and despised the Faith of the Seven. It was a truly remarkable feat to harness the stupidity of thousands of people so effectively for so many years. It was just a shame they had to be so obnoxious to those they didn't have control of. The blind piety of the lower echelons also grated, a fact I was reminded of as the holy brother entered my chamber, shaved scalp and brown roughspun robes and all. So arrogant in their humility.

"Your Grace." The man bowed deeply, giving me a clear view of the top of his head.

I smiled graciously.

"Good brother. I understand that you are here on behalf of His Holiness."

He nodded.

"That is true, Your Grace. His Holiness most urgently requests your presence in the Sept of Baelor at your earliest convenience."

His Holiness was clearly testing the waters with his new king, then. I would have to tread lightly with this.

I cocked my head to the side.

"If His Holiness wishes to speak to me, he is most welcome to come to the Red Keep at any time he desires. My door is always open to him, and to any member of the Faith."

He shook his head.

"It will certainly gratify him to know of your piety, Your Grace, but His Holiness was most insistent. He feels uncomfortable among the trappings of wealth, expecially given the appalling suffering of so many in the Riverlands and beyond."

I desperately hope he didn't believe that. It took a significant portion of my willpower just to keep a straight face.

"He also feels that it would be pleasing to both the Gods and the commonfolk to see their King make a pilgrimage to the Sept of Baelor before his coronation."

More likely His Holiness was too fat to fit into his litter. I pretended to mull it over for a second.

"Very well. Tell His Holiness that I will come to him before the day is out."

### 

If you asked me which of the Targaryen kings was the worst, you might have been surprised by my answer. Yes, Maegor was cruel and Aerys was mad and most of the others were stupid, but my personal oppobrium I reserved for Baelor the Blessed.

My reasoning was that, even at the very heights of their madnesses, Aerys and Maegor still exhibited sane, if excessive, responses to their paranoid delusions. Would I have reacted to the threats they faced in the way that they did? Of course not, but they were at least acting to preserve their own positions. Baelor, on the other hand, locked his wife away in the Maidenvault, took a Septon's vows so that he couldn't have children, appointed first an illiterate stonemason and then a nine-year-old boy as his High Septon, and generally did his best to throw away everything that he had. If that wasn't sheer madness, I'm not sure what is.

That question slipped from my mind for the moment, however, as Baelor's legacy loomed above me. The Sept of Baelor was the ultimate expression of incongruity and hypocrisy. It was a gleaming temple of stone alongside houses made of wood and barely held together by nails. It smelled of the finest incense upon a street littered with dead rats and human shit. It was whiter than a pure maiden's smallclothes yet housed the perpetrators of the worst perversions, who grew fat and complacent even as in its shadow men withered in starvation. It was built by a man so terrified of his temptations that he was willing to lock them away, and now was occupied by those who gave themselves so willingly to their own: another of Baelor's innumerable failures.

That's not to say it isn't an impressive structure, however. I shudder to think of the difficulty of constructing the Hall of Lamps, with its glass globes hanging from that cavernous ceiling. It was just a shame all that craftsmanship should be used on Baelor's great folly and not on something more useful. I wondered how many trees had been cut down to form the doors as I walked through them, how many cliffs had been destroyed to build the statues as I passed them. All of this, created from the credulity of one man. That was why I admired the Faith of the Seven.

The High Septon stood before the statue of the Father, bedecked in rich silks and adorned by glittering rings. The sunlight bounced off his crystal crown and flashed my eyes blindingly. It was just as well because he wasn't particularly attractive to look upon. It would appear that I was right about the litter; the man would have dwarfed my father.

Nevertheless, I swallowed my distaste and bowed down to kiss his ring.

"Your Holiness, how may I be of service?"

He smiled at me rather like how a butcher might smile at a lamb.

"It is I who serves you, Your Grace. It is the will of the Gods that puts you on your throne." Meaning, of course, that the will of the Gods could remove me from it too. "However, I hoped to discuss the matter of the crown's debt to the Faith. Our resources across the Kingdoms have been stretched thin by the recent conflict, and this makes the charitable work of the Faith much more difficult. As such, if the crown could repay that debt, it would be a great boon to our efforts."

I nodded slowly. Of course it was about money. I should have expected that.

"The crown owes a great deal of debt to many lenders, including the Faith of the Seven. Financial management was not one of my father's strengths. Besides, I had hoped that the Doctrine of Exceptionlism would permit us to overlook that little difficulty."

He chuckled condescendingly.

"Now, Your Grace, we both know that the Doctrine of Exceptionalism applied only to the Targaryens and you are not a Targaryen."

"I am the king, and the Baratheon line is descended from that of House Targaryen."

"With all due respect to your ancestor, Your Grace, Orys Baratheon was a bastard. In any case, it does not change our needs. The Doctrine was intended to smooth relations between the commonfolk and the crown, not to allow you to avoid paying your debt."

"No, it was intended to stop the dragons from burning your predecessors alive." I snapped. If only such an option was available to me now.

He did not deny it.

"Nevertheless, Your Grace, I think you would be wise to prioritise certain creditors over others. If the crown does not repay its debt to the Faith, I will have no recourse but to withhold my blessing of your kingship, and of your marriage to the Lady Sansa."

I barked with laughter, startling him. 

"And who do you plan to bless? Renly? I think his night-time habits might be a tiny bit more offensive to the Seven than my financial situation. What about Stannis? I hear he’s burning effigies of the Seven at the behest of some Red Witch. Do you think the Most Devout could stomach that, because I sincerely doubt it. Robb Stark wouldn’t be too attractive either, since he directs his worship towards a load of old trees rather than your grand septs. Don’t take me for a fool, Your Holiness. The only way for your blessing to do me any harm is for you to bless the damned.”

He wilted before my tirade, but a wilted plant can still be poisonous.

"And what of the royal wedding?"

I shrugged.

"My betrothed is of the North. It would be quite acceptable for me to choose to have a wedding in their tradition should it suit me to do so. And if I am asked questions as to why I chose to shun the Great Sept, I will reveal the details of our conversation. Should my version of events be disputed, I will order a royal inquiry into the affairs of the Faith."

The High Septon's face reddened with fury, looking very much like an overgrown tomato.

"A royal inquiry?! You would not _dare--_ "

"Or..." I interrupted. "you could forgive the Crown's debt to the Faith and put some of your own money towards your expenses for a change. In return, I will ensure that no awkward questions are asked about your affairs and allow _my_ coronation and wedding to be held here."

His meaty lips pressed themselves almost to invisibility as he glared at me. A vein bulged in his temple. It was really quite funny. Eventually, he sighed.

"Yes, Your Grace."

I beamed brightly.

"Wonderful. I will begin preparations immediately. Good day, Your Holiness."

As I walked out the Great Sept, a street urchin appeared out of nowhere, holding out a small scroll. One of Varys' little birds, no doubt. I fished in my pockets for a coin and gave it to him for the paper, and he vanished just as quickly as he had appeared.

I unfurled it as I emerged into the sunlight, and felt the blood drain from my face as I read it.

"Your Grace?" One of the Kingsguard had obviously noticed my distress.

"I need to get to the Red Keep. Now."

### 

I almost smashed the door off its hinges as I stormed into my mother's chamber.

" _What have you done?!_ "

She started in her chair at the suddenness of my entrance, but quickly composed herself.

"What have I done?"

My stomach was boiling like the pit of a volcano, and I felt ready to implode with rage.

"Eddard Stark is dead!"

The mixture of emotions which cascaded across her face did little to assuage me. First surprise, then joy, then triumph, then worry, then fear.

"You can't possibly be suggesting that I--"

I slammed my fist on the table. If only the wood were bone and teeth instead, it would have been much more cathartic.

"Myrcella was handed a note by a servant telling her this while Sansa was in the room. I don't know anybody else who would do something as wantonly cruel as that."

"Take your pick of anybody at court."

I scoffed and shook my head. There was always a clever answer.

"Perhaps, but I can't be certain it wasn't you, any more than I can be certain that any other treason in this city won't be in your name. You'll leave for Lannisport tomorrow."

Her eyes widened and she stood falteringly only to fall to the floor at my feet.

"No! Please, Joffrey! Think of Tommen and Myrcella--"

"I have," I stepped back from her grovelling form. "and I think it would do them some good. You will be allowed a monthly correspondence with them, but I will read each and every letter you send."

I turned on my heel.

"You cannot do this! I am the Queen Regent of--"

I slammed the door behind me and walked to the congregation of soldiers outside. At my signal, they moved to the door.

"Have you found her yet?"

"In the Tower of the Hand, Your Grace."

Of course. 

I rushed through the castle with as much dignity as I could manage. My mind filled with the most horrific possibilities: images of Sansa throwing herself off the top of the tower, smashing into the ground, her skull obliterated against the hard cobbles; or taking a knife and cutting her own throat; or taking a draught of some poison. I was so distracted that I hardly noticed the journey from the Royal Appartments to the Tower, and reached the top of the stairs inside. 

I instantly relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief as I entered Lord Stark's chambers to see Sansa curled up on his bed.

"Sansa."

She did not move.

I walked around the bed and sat down beside her. For the first time in my life, I had no idea what to say. 

"Your Grace."

Varys stood in the door to the chamber, looking somewhat shaken.

I walked over to him.

"Did he write his confession?"

He shook his head.

"If he did, it was taken by whoever killed him."

I sighed.

"Keep searching for the killer. If Stark did confess, and we find it, we might jus--"

"Get out, Varys." Sansa sat up and spat. "Get out now."

I glanced at him apologetically and nodded.

Varys bowed and slinked out of the room smoothly.

"Sansa, I--"

Her hand whipped around and struck my cheek. It wasn't a particularly strong hit, certainly not as strong as my father's, but somehow it hurt so much more.

I brought my hand up to my stinging face.

"There are kings who would have your hand for that."

Sansa scoffed.

"You don't care. My father is dead and you’re worried about a piece of paper.” 

The final minute strands of my patience broke. In my own way, I exploded. My voice no longer carried the seismic force I had barraged my mother with, but simply coldness. 

“What would you have me say then, hm? ‘I’m sorry?’ Well, if that’s want you want me to say, then I’m sorry that the world isn’t like those stories you read when you were a little girl. We’re in the great game now, Sansa, and there’s only one way to make sure you win."

I put my hands on her shoulders.

"You carry on, no matter what happens. You block out the screams and ignore the crying children in the dark. You stoop lower than everybody else, not because you want to but because you must, to protect your family. That is what war is: doing the unspeakable because the only alternative is to have the unspeakable done to you. Your father failed to understand that and that is why he is dead. If you can’t find it in yourself to accept it, I will put you on a cart and send you home."

Sansa swallowed thickly and stared at her clasped hands.

I sighed. It wasn't ideal or enjoyable to have to speak to her that way, but harsh lessons should be taught quickly. I rested my forehead against hers.

“I love you, Sansa, but if I let you become a weakness, we will both die.”

She nodded and breathed out shakily.

"I won't. I promise."

I smiled sadly and kissed her on the forehead.

"I'll let you grieve."

I left her lying on the bed and exited the room, looking around the chambers. A large book rested atop Stark's desk.

_'The Lineage and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms'_

I frowned. Ned Stark didn't seem like the sort of man who would pore over lists of dead men. He must have had a reason to have this book. 

'You have no claim to the throne!' He said. 

I opened the large tome and turned to the lineage of House Baratheon. 

"Orys Baratheon, black of hair." I mumbled aloud. "Axel Baratheon, black of hair."

Black of hair, black of hair, black of hair, black of hair, black of hair, black of hair--

"Joffrey Baratheon, golden-haired."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of Act I of the story. It will pick up at the start of Season 2 of the show.


	9. Chapter 9

It could be worse.

It could be a lot worse.

It could also be a lot better.

This tunic is very uncomfortable.

My feet itch.

Has the room got hotter all of a sudden?

Gods, this is boring.

Does that man never tire of his own voice? There were hardly enough poor souls in the sept to warrant a sermon of such mind-crushing vastness. 

What would I give up to have this over with?

Before I could begin to contemplate that question at length, I saw Sansa, and my complaints vacated my mind.

She was resplendent, even in a gown that had been hurriedly stitched together from whatever material was lying around that happened to be the appropriate shade of grey.

Even in the relative quietness among the small smattering of subjects in the sept, a hush fell over the group as she walked toward the altar on the arm of Ser Barristan. When she was firmly within my view, she looked up and offered me a shy smile.

I responded with a subtle wink and turned back towards the High Septon as she stepped up beside me.

"You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

I swept the black velvet cloak from my shoulders and pushed her own white cloak to the floor. A strange sort of pride blossomed in my chest as the gold stag of House Baratheon spread across her back, as she was marked as mine and mine alone.

"My lords, my ladies, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Sansa placed her hand upon mine, and the High Septon wrapped a long ribbon around our wrists.

"Let it be known that Joffrey of the House Baratheon and Sansa of the House Stark are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity."

He untied the ribbon.

"Look upon each other and say the words."

We obeyed, and began in unison.

""Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger, I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

I turned to the assembled audience.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love."

It was perhaps a touch more chaste than either of us would have wished it to be, but it still caused applause to ring around the sept.

### 

Sansa rested her head on my shoulder, shaking me from my thoughts.

"What's wrong?"

Where to begin?

"What makes you think there's something wrong?"

"It's your nameday, we just got married, and yet you're sat there thinking instead of eating at your own feast."

I frowned.

"I spend a lot of my time thinking, and I don't like celebrating my nameday."

"Why not?"

"I don't see the point in celebrating the fact that I'm another year closer to being dead, that's all."

Sansa lifted her head off my shoulder to look me in the eye.

"You are such a cynical pessimist."

I scoffed.

"A cynic is what a fool calls a realist, and a pessimist is just someone who is always prepared for the worst."

She shook her head.

"Will you at least try to enjoy yourself?"

I smiled.

"I am enjoying myself. I enjoy thinking, and I enjoy being with you."

I leaned in and kissed her gently.

Somebody cleared their throat behind me. A steward bent down beside me.

"My deepest apologies, Your Graces, but Grand Maester Pycelle has called an urgent meeting of the Small Council immediately."

I clicked my tongue in annoyance and nodded, dismissing him with a wave.

Pycelle had better have a bloody good excuse for this.

"Come on."

Sansa frowned.

"Why?"

I stood.

"I want you on the Small Council. You are the queen now."

She looked up at me with a skeptical eyebrow raised.

"You want to me to serve you on the Small Council while my brother is at war with you?"

"The strategy of the war has been delegated to my commanders in the field; it is no longer in my hands. If you're going to help me rule, I need your voice on the council."

She sighed and shook her head.

"I don't want to sit on that council discussing things I don't understand yet with people I don't know. Besides, one of us should stay here. This is supposed to be our wedding day."

I didn't miss the barb in her tone but nodded anyway. She was right, of course: it would hardly reflect well on us if we were both absent from the celebrations. I turned to Mandon Moore.

"Any man who lays his hand on her loses that hand."

It was unlikely that anyone would be drunk or stupid enough to try to cause trouble this early, but when the wine flows one can never be too careful.

### 

"The raven arrived this morning, Your Grace." 

As Pycelle spoke, a servant placed a large birdcage on the Small Council table and removed the sheet around it. A white raven stood nonchalantly on the perch, its beady eyes glaring around its new surroundings.

"The conclave has met, considered reports from maesters all over the Seven Kingdoms, and declared this great summer done... At last. The longest summer in living memory."

I sighed and pinched the bridge of my nose. 

Just my luck.

"The peasants say a long summer means an even longer winter."

Pycelle scoffed.

"A common superstition."

I shifted in my chair. 

"It doesn't matter if it's a superstition or not, Grand Maester. The point is that they believe it."

"We have enough wheat for a five-year winter." Littlefinger noted, desperately trying to sound solemn. "If it lasts any longer, we'll have fewer peasants."

Now it was Slynt's turn.

"The city's drowning in refugees, Your Grace, fleeing the war."

I snorted. 

As if they're any safer here.

"We have nowhere to house them, and with winter coming it'll only get worse."

The raven cawed. I beckoned for a servant to take it before I threw the damn thing into a wall.

"Lord Slynt, are you not Lord of Harrenhal?"

Slynt frowned and gulped audibly.

"Yes, Your Grace. I am most gra--"

"And," I interrupted, "you are going to have to deal with a similar issue when you take your seat. People will seek shelter at Harrenhal, just like they will at every other castle. Tell me, how would you deal with them?"

Slynt's mouth opened and closed a few times as he struggled with the problem, giving him the appearance of a freshly caught fish. A fish out of water indeed. After a few seconds of this, I took pity on him.

"You say you are undermanned: recruit the men into the City Watch, put them to work on our defenses, have them build their own shelters, give them jobs. Just because they are displaced doesn't make them useless."

The light of epiphany shone upon Slynt's face and he nodded earnestly.

"Yes, Your Grace."

_And so he spoke, and so he spoke, that Lord of Castamere. And now the rains weep o'er his halls, with no one there to hear."_

The whistled tune echoed into the chamber, announcing Tyrion Lannister's entrance with suitable dramatic impetus.

"Beloved nephew!" His misshapen face contorted into a wide grin.

I blinked.

"What are you doing here?" 

As is his wont, he didn't answer the question. Instead, he clambered into a seat.

"It's been a remarkable journey," He reached for the wine. "I pissed off the edge of the Wall. Slept in a Sky Cell. Fought with the Hill Tribes! So many adventures," He looked pointedly at Littlefinger, "So much to be thankful for."

Littlefinger returned the look with a sly sidelong glance of his own. Clearly there was unfinished business there.

I raised my eyebrow but let it slide for now.

"Well, as much as I welcome your presence, Uncle, this is the Small Council. If you wish to sit in on these meetings then I will happily find a post for you."

Master of Sewers, perhaps.

Tyrion's smile did not relent.

"I thank you for the offer, Your Grace, but that will not be necessary." He placed a small scroll on the table. 

Varys picked it up and read it.

"Lord Tywin Lannister has named Lord Tyrion to serve as Hand of the King in his stead while he fights the war in the Riverlands."

I sat back in my chair and regarded the dwarf for a moment.

"My lords, I would speak to my uncle alone."

There was brief shuffle as the other members of the council obeyed my command. An awkward blanket of silence fell between us.

"Have you enjoyed being king thus far?"

I snorted.

“Well, either Grandfather has the greatest political instinct in the history of the world, or you have very foul luck. A white raven came this morning from the Citadel.”

Tyrion grimaced.

“‘Winter is Coming.’ The Small Council?"

I rubbed my forehead.

"I'm surrounded by idiots."

"Good. It's the clever ones you need to look out for. Which is why I was so surprised when you called for Ned Stark's head."

"I didn't."

Tyrion did a double-take, goblet halfway to his mouth.

"Come again?"

"Ned Stark was assassinated in his cell. I did not want him dead. That was just a lie we told so that we wouldn't look weak."

"No, now you just look stupid. The North is in full revolt, and now Robb Stark has my brother hostage. Still, no matter. We have two Starks to trade. They value family, so we offer them an exchange."

I sighed.

"We don't have any Starks to trade."

He blinked, unable to comprehend what I had just said.

"I just saw Sansa outside. I assumed that the other girl was restrained somewhere."

I shook my head.

"Meryn Trant let Arya slip through his fingers."

"And Sansa?"

I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, cursing the gods for their sense of timing.

"I just married her."

Tyrion did not respond for a moment. Then he grinned.

"She's a lovely girl."

I nodded, though that wasn't even the half of her.

"She is."

He placed his boots on the table.

"Well then, it looks like I'm going to be cleaning up your mess for a long while now."

Now I grinned.

"The king shits and the Hand wipes."

He raised his goblet.

"Here's to claggy bottoms."

I lifted my own goblet.

"And lucky dwarves."

Tyrion knocked back his wine greedily and placed his goblet on the table, smacking his lips. I sipped my own wine carefully.

"Who can we trust?"

I shrugged.

"Depends on what you mean. We can trust in Slynt's loyalty but not in his competence, we can trust Pycelle to be useless, we can trust Ser Barristan to be honourable, and we can trust Littlefinger in no way, shape or form."

"And Varys?"

"Varys and I have an understanding. I need him and he is willing to give us the benefit of the doubt."

"And if he decides that we are not worthy of his services?"

"We kill him, though I don't expect it to come to that. He claims to have the interests of the realm at heart, so all we have to do is not go mad and we should be alright."

Tyrion snorted.

"Easier said than done, nephew,"

I sipped my wine again.

"Is Slynt expendable?"

I raised my eyebrows at the question.

"I can think of nobody more so. Why?"

"I have my own man. He saved my life a fair few times in recent weeks, and a Lannister always pays his debts."

A sellsword, then. Perhaps this would give me a chance to try out Varys' riddle.

"I don't mind as long as he is capable, but I want a favour in return."

Tyrion looked intrigued.

"A king does not need to ask for favours."

"No, but I think it's best to make sure you keep my secrets."

He nodded.

"Go on."

### 

I swept my eyes around the hall as the final feast of the day whirled around me. Men, highborn and low, knocked their goblets and their tankards against one another, singing bawdy tunes and occasionally fondling the poor serving girls.

It was all so bovine.

Sansa rested her head on my shoulder.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. I know the Small Council is important."

I hummed and buried my nose in her hair.

"It is, but our wedding is important too. I'm sorry I couldn't spend the whole day with you."

"We'll have many other days."

I tangled my fingers between hers.

"Still, I've told them that tomorrow is off limits. They are not to disturb us unless a pig flies over the walls and squashes someone."

She threw back her head and laughed.

"That's oddly specific."

I smiled.

"Yes, and it means we can spend tomorrow relaxing."

She raised her eyebrow.

"And fucking?"

I shrugged.

"If you want to... Are you nervous?"

She nodded and averted her eyes from me for a moment.

"A little. Honestly, my septas didn't give me the most reassuring descriptions of what happens on a wedding night."

I snorted into my goblet.

"Well, what would a septa know about it?"

"My thoughts exactly, but there are other things I'm not comfortable about. The bedding ceremony, for instance."

"Who said anything about a bedding ceremony?"

She stared me, brow furrowed.

"I... assumed that we would be following tradtion."

I hissed. Traditions at a wedding are like maggots in a good cut of meat.

"The right to the first night is ancient tradition too. Would you like it if I went around fucking every little lord's wife in the name of tradition?"

She pressed her lips together and sighed.

I swallowed and brought her hand to my lips.

"Sorry. It's just... Come on."

I stood up.

"We can't just leave."

"I am the king and you are the queen. We can do what pleases us, and no one else. Besides, they're all too drunk to care."

She looked out across the hall and saw for the first time what I saw: the debauched, unsavoury masses we ruled over, and contempt spread across her lips.

She got to her feet beside me.

"Where are we going?"

"I have a wedding present for you."

### 

One of the advantages of having a castle the size of the Red Keep is that a structure of that size will generally accomodate anything one could conceivably require, including, on this fortuitous occasion, a garden large enough to contain several large trees. It was no Kingswood, but it was quite satisfactory for my needs.

I led Sansa out of shelter into the still-warm air of a dying summer's day. We trudged through the leaves and the twigs until we reached the middle of the garden, where the largest tree of the lot craned over us. At its base, somewhat comically, was Tyrion. 

I turned to Sansa, who looked at me quizzically.

"It's no weirwood, but I hope it's an able substitute."

She frowned and smiled at the same time.

"Substitute for what?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I left her to join Tyrion at the base of the tree. Ser Barristan, who had been shadowing us in silence, moved next to Sansa and offered his arm to her.

"If Your Grace will permit me, it would be my honour to give you away."

Sansa's mouth fell open, and she looked at me. I smiled and nodded to her, and she took the proffered arm.

As Ser Barristan and Sansa approached, Tyrion cleared his throat. Fortunately, he didn't seem too drunk.

"Who comes before the Gods this night?"

Ser Barristan stood to attention and recited.

"Sansa, of the House Stark, comes to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who claims her?"

I stepped forward.

"I do. Joffrey of the House Baratheon, First of My Name. King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Who gives her?"

"Ser Barristan of the House Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

Tyrion turned to Sansa.

"Queen Sansa, do you take this man?"

Sansa looked at me with tears in her eyes, barely able to get the words out.

"I take this man."


	10. Chapter 10

I opened the door to our chambers and held it open for Sansa to pass by me. Somebody had clearly decided that candles are an aphrodisiac, as every candelabra was lit, as was the fireplace. All this basked the room in a warm but somewhat off-putting orange glow.

Sansa stayed silent in the centre of the room, wringing her hands, as I moved around closing windows and blowing out a few of the more unnecessary candles in an attempt to conceal my own nerves.

After a few moments of silence, I decided to cut the metaphorical limb off quickly and took her in my arms. I looked into her eyes for a second, then kissed her.

She moaned softly into my mouth, her hands grasping my shoulders tightly. 

I moved my hands down her back to her legs and lifted her gently onto the bed. I hovered over her as she looked up at me with hooded eyes and lips parted, her chest heaving. 

I looped my finger through the top lace of her gown.

"May I?"

She bit her lip and nodded; she shivered as I tugged on the laces one by one, opening her gown just enough to expose a corridor of skin.

I leant down to kiss down her chest, and she arched up into me. I took hold of the top of her skirt and tugged it down her legs so that she was left in her smallclothes.

"Careful with that!" She admonished squeakily.

I frowned. She had never taken that tone with me before.

"It's a wedding dress, Sansa. It's a dress made for the sole purpose of being torn off."

"And I am asking you to be careful with it."

As it made no particular difference to me, I folded it up and placed it on the floor by the bed. I turned back to see Sansa had taken the top of her dress off and had laid back on the pillows with her arms crossed, covering her chest.

A blush emerged from beneath her skin to envelope her face and neck.

I smirked.

"Was that a ploy to get me to look away for a moment?"

She bit her lip and nodded.

"Might I ask why?"

She swallowed and hesitated.

"I..."

I sighed.

"Are you scared of this? Of me?"

She shook her head.

"Not scared, just nervous. I don't want this to be a disaster, I want this to be good for both of us. It's just that you seem so confident and I'm not."

I scoffed quietly.

"Do you really think I'm that confident?"

She blinked.

I pulled myself up to lay beside her against the headboard and placed my hand on her stomach, drawing small shapes on her skin with my fingers.

"I'm the king, Sansa. I have to look confident even when I'm not."

"And if you can't pretend?"

"I take control," I took hold of her arms and pulled them away from her chest. "Like this."

She breathed in sharply as I took one of her nipples in my mouth and sucked on it hard, her fingers carding through my hair.

I kept at it for a few seconds, then switched to her other breast, feeling her chest vibrate as she hummed contentedly. I glanced up at her.

Her face was fully flushed, her lips parted, her eyes wild. 

I leaned up to kiss her again, pushing a little bit more this time. 

She groaned, opening her mouth against mine a little, just enough to let my tongue creep inside and brush against hers.

We pulled apart. I stared down at her and she stared up at me, her lips swollen. I trailed my hand down her body and reached her smallclothes.

"Have you ever touched yourself?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

"The septas told me it was sinful."

Of course they did.

I grinned.

"Well, it's not sinful for me to do it, is it?"

A naughty little smile spread across her lips and she shook her head again.

I winked at her and slipped my fingers beneath the hem of her smallclothes. 

She gasped as my fingertips brushed over her. "Gods..." She whispered softly.

I quickly moved down and pulled her smallclothes away to expose her cunt. 

"What are you--?"

Before she could complete the question, she moaned loudly as I pressed my lips to her and let my tongue roam around.

It was an odd taste. Sweet, but not solely or excessively so. Still, I found that I liked it, and she bucked her hips up into me as I licked deeper into her.

I followed her groans and moans, varying the amount of pressure I applied. Her hands laid themselves on my head and guided me, occasionally gripping tightly if I found a particular spot.

Eventually, she let out a small squeak and clamped her hand over her mouth, squeezing her eyes shut as she convulsed around me, her legs squashing against my head and shoulders. I locked my arms around her hips and held her fast. She eventually stopped shaking and relaxed back into her pillow, her chest heaving as she sturggled to catch her breath.

"Wh-where in the Seven Hells did you learn to do _that_?"

I pushed myself into an upright position, wiping my face on my sleeve and feeling quite proud that I'd managed to extract another thunderous oath from her.

"I read it in a book."

She laughed breathily.

"What kind of book?"

I grimaced.

" _A Caution for Young Girls._ Tyrion gave it to me when I was thirteen. It's graphic. Very graphic."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Are there any other tricks that you want to try out?"

I shook my head.

"Perhaps you should read it. See if it inspires you."

She giggled and extended her arms out to me; I crawled over to her and let her taste herself on my tongue. She pulled away and looked up at me.

"Why are you still dressed?"

I tilted my head.

"Do you want me to undress?" I sat back and let my hands rest in my lap. "Take control, Sansa."

She practically jumped up and grabbed hold of my collar, then turned us both so that I was the one against the headboard and she was sat on my lap. It was quite something to behold, her messy hair falling around her face and shoulders as she gazed down at me. Her fingers made quick work of the buttons of my tunic and she almost ripped it from my arms. She dipped her head down to press kisses against my mouth and face and neck as her hands crept to my breeches. I lifted my hips and she wrenched them off me.

Now she stopped for a moment and looked down into my eyes. The look of pure arousal on her face was enough to make me harden against her leg.

She glanced down at it and grinned back at me.

"Are you ready?"

I nodded.

She reached between her legs and guided my cock into her. 

We gasped together as I touched her entrance first, then as she slid gingerly onto me. 

I took her hand and squeezed it gently as she closed her eyes and steeled herself.

She sank down with a small gasp and a pop.

"Breathe, Sansa."

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes again, smiling down at me.

"It doesn't hurt."

I sat up and kissed her gently. 

She wrapped her arms around my shoulders and started to rotate her hips slowly, rising up and down.

I groaned into her mouth as she did so and let my hands roam around her back and hips, enjoying the feeling of her body rubbing against me, both inside and out, joining us together.

Our moans grew louder and more frequent, until eventually I could hold on no longer.

"Sansa." I groaned as I spilled my seed into her.

She slowed her movements, until we were both still in each other's arms, catching our breath.

Our eyes met and we giggled quietly together.

"I love you."

She beamed and pecked my lips.

"I love you too."

I lay back into the bed, taking her down with me until she lay straddling me with her head on my chest. I tried to turn and push her to the side, but she held fast.

"I want to stay like this. It feels nice."

I hummed and acquiesced, and we lay together until sleep took us both.

### 

"What would you be if you weren't king?"

I shook myself from my thoughts and looked down at Sansa.

"What?"

She drew small circles on my chest with her fingers.

"If you were the fourth son of a minor lord and you could choose what you wanted to be; what would you do?"

"I imagine I'd want to be king."

She laughed.

"Be realistic."

I sighed. I'd never really thought about it.

"An Archmaester, maybe. I think I'd make a good archmaester."

"Is that because you like showing off how clever you are?"

"That may have something to do with it, yes. Perhaps I'd just become a septon."

"You don't believe in the Seven."

I snorted.

"Well, neither do most septons. All they have to do is memorize a few books, and for that they get the reverence of the masses, a good bed and more wine, food and vices than any minor lord could dream of. It's not that difficult to imagine the appeal, even for those who don't believe, and the ones who do believe tend to stop after a while. Which is just as well for us."

"Why?"

I looked down at her with a raised eyebrow.

"Because they might end up doing the right thing. At least you can get a crooked septon drunk enough not to notice what you're doing, or send him a little boy if all else fails. That doesn't work with the septons who actually believe what they're reading. You don't beat the Faith, Sansa; you only make it look the other way."

She nodded and settled back down.

I frowned. 

"What's wrong?"

"I'm just worried about the world I'm supposed to bring a child into."

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"You don't have to worry about that yet. You haven't flowered yet, and there's always moon tea if we need it."

She lifted herself up and turned to face me.

"But you need an heir."

I shook my head.

"An heir isn't really going to help either of us in the short-term. My mother once told me that men fight their battles in the field, and women fight their battles in the birthing bed. Well, any strategist would tell you to pick your battles. If it isn't safe to have a child, we won't have one. I don't want you risking your health, just in case. People will talk, but we can deal with that." 

I cupped her face in my hands.

"Don't worry about it."

She nodded and took my hands.

"Are you going to forgive your mother?"

"It isn't about forgiveness, I can't trust her. When the war is over and our positions are secure, I will extend an olive branch to her."

"And if she doesn't forgive you? You sent her away from her children."

I didn't have an answer.


	11. Chapter 11

"Is that the book you took from my father's chamber?"

I looked up from my desk to look at her.

"Yes."

She moved beside me, brow furrowed.

" _'The Lineage and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms.'_ That doesn't seem like the sort of thing that would interest him, or you for that matter." 

I scoffed sardonically.

"It isn't, but this might be."

I opened the book to the page on House Baratheon and pointed. 

Sansa leaned over and looked over the page, her finger trailing across the page. She read down to my name and stopped, looking back to me with a frown.

"What does this mean?"

"According to Stannis Baratheon, it means that I am not Robert Baratheon's son."

She barked out a short, derisory laugh.

"Because of your hair?! That's awfully convenient for him." She took hold of a few strands of her own. "Am I not Ned Stark's daughter because I take after my mother? Is my brother not the Lord of Winterfell because he has the Tully colouring?" She slammed the book shut. "This changes nothing."

I shook my head.

"It changes a great deal. My enemies will use this to attack my right to the throne. My father has bastards, Sansa; even if Stannis doesn't take the throne, somebody could use this to place one of them on it instead. They wouldn't even need to take Kings Landing. It could tear this kingdom--" 

" _Our_ enemies will try to kill us anyway. You keep telling me that nobody cares about the truth, so why have you started caring now? You're just being a pedant."

That was the wrong thing to say, and we both knew it as soon as she said it.

"Alright." I snapped, "Answer me this. If I hadn't been the crown prince, if I'd been some bastard roaming the streets of the city, would you have wanted to marry me?" 

Sansa clenched her fists.

"What kind of question is that?"

"A very serious one, and one which we both know the answer to. I just want to hear you admit it. If I'd been a bastard, you wouldn't have given me a second thought. You wanted to marry the king and nothing less would do, so don't tell me these things aren't important."

She opened and closed her mouth a few times, unable to form an answer. I cocked my head to one side and she broke, turning and fleeing the room with tears in her eyes.

I ground my teeth together in anger. I didn't regret the words I said so much as the hurt that they caused her. I seethed in silence for a few minutes before someone knocked on the door. 

"Enter."

Varys floated into the room and sank into the chair opposite me.

"Lover's quarrel, Your Grace?"

His spies work quickly, it would seem.

I rubbed my eyes.

"I would prefer not to discuss it."

"As Your Grace commands." He pulled a scroll from his sleeve and placed it on the desk. 

I looked at it with the enthusiasm with which I might have greeted a puddle of vomit.

"Is that all of them?"

"That I know of."

I picked up the scroll gingerly.

"So there could be more of them?"

"Without wishing to cause offence, Your Grace, given King Robert's proclivity for such things I would say it is almost certain that he has bastards that almost nobody would be aware of. I can only tell you what I know."

He who has secrets must also keep it secret that he has the secret to keep.

I scanned the list.

"What do you recommend I do with them?"

Varys smiled.

"It is not for the likes of me to impress oneself upon the deliberations of the mighty, Your Grace."

The arrogance of humility, damning me with faint praise. He was baiting me, of course. This was a test, to see how low I could stoop.

I leaned back in the chair and crossed my legs.

"Spare me the pre-emptive contempt. Varys. I'm not going to kill them." He raised an eyebrow. "Well, not unless they become a direct threat. I may not be perfect, but I have no reason to kill them yet. They're still innocent."

"I consider all possibilities, Your Grace."

A dangerous thing to tell somebody.

I breathed in through my nose.

"They all have black hair, I assume?"

"To my knowledge, yes."

"And their mothers?"

He smirked.

"I am a spider on the wall, Your Grace, not an oracle."

I glared at him.

Would that I could squash him like a spider.

He did not falter in my gaze.

"I understand your concern, Your Grace, but your father's bastards are only a threat to you if you make them so. They are mere children, and you are the king."

"You served the Targaryens, Varys. You ought to know how much damage children can do, especially to kings."

"If Your Grace fears a repeat of the Blackfyre Rebellion, I can assure you that this is different. For a start, your father's offspring are unaware of their heritage, nor are they likely to be in a position to garner support independently. Stannis Baratheon does not gain from their existence, nor does Renly or Robb Stark. Your concern that they will be used as proof of your lack of heritage can be countered with exactly the point your wife made earlier."

So he knows about that. Of course he does. 

I crossed my arms.

"I suppose you have some counsel regarding my marriage as well."

"I can only offer you what you ask for, Your Grace."

"Then I ask for your silence on that particular matter." I snapped. 

"Very well, my silence you shall have."

"Keep track of the children, and inform me if any of them fall into my enemies' hands." 

He bowed his head.

"Yes, Your Grace."

### 

"So Jaime is your father."

I swallowed and nodded.

"I believe so, yes."

Tyrion gazed at me thoughtfully.

"You know, I'm not surprised."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Why not?"

He shrugged.

"I'm not sure. Call it a hunch."

Dangerous things, hunches.

"I refuse to call anything a hunch."

Tyrion smiled morosely.

"You are much too intelligent to be Robert Baratheon's son."

I scoffed.

"And yet I am Cersei Lannister's son too."

Tyrion looked at me pointedly.

"Don't underestimate your mother. Cersei devotes too much energy to avenging minor slights and fighting inconsequential feuds to be what she could be, but she is not stupid."

"And what makes me any better than that?"

"Cersei wields power rather like how a squire would wield a greatsword. She is clumsy where precision is required. She shouts when a quiet word would suffice. You understand what it is to hold power and wield it effectively. Your sword may rarely leave its sheath, but it never leaves your side. In some ways, you are a much better version of my father."

I cocked my head.

"How so?"

"You're just enough of a good person to be a benevolent king, and just enough of a heartless bastard to be a strong one."

Was that supposed to make me feel any better?

He drained his cup.

"Now, what is this business between you and Sansa?"

Oh, not this again.

I rubbed my eye.

"I don't wish to discuss it."

"I know," Tyrion reached for the wine jug. "That's what wine is for, Nephew." He poured me a cup. "Drink."

I sipped it.

"Drink!"

I took a swig more.

"How do you know about this?"

"I have sources of my own."

I thought for a moment. Then groaned.

"That new handmaiden;" I clicked my fingers, trying to remember. "What's her name, Sheila?"

"Shae."

So he is fucking her. I thought she seemed a little too exotic to be _just_ a handmaiden.

"You remembered that name awfully quickly."

"Don't change the subject. You drove the poor girl to tears this morning. What did you say to her?"

I swallowed.

"I asked her if she would love me if I was some street urchin."

He grimaced.

I lowered my eyes in something approaching shame.

"I know you wouldn't have said something like that without a reason, and I know that you won't feel sorry for saying it either. I may not have been married for a long time, and I'm not a king either, but I do know that marriages don't go well when that sort of question gets asked."

I drank some more wine.

"Joffrey, I understand that this has been a shock to you, but it does not change anything in practical terms. We both know the history of every war ever fought was written by the victors. If we win, we'll be right and if we don't, it won't matter because we'll be dead. You have a beautiful, intelligent, sweet young woman alongside you who appears to be willing to put up with you for the rest of her life. Don't waste her."

He reclined into his chair.

"Now, I believe you have somewhere to be."

I nodded slowly.

"I suppose I do."

### 

I crept quietly into the royal appartments and glanced around. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Sansa sitting in a chair, reading. I trudged over to her slowly.

"Sansa."

She looked up from her book and gave me a small smile, which was a start, but didn't say anything.

I gestured to the chair opposite her.

"May I sit?"

"You're the king. You don't need t--"

"That's not what I mean and you know it isn't."

She wet her lip and nodded, closing the book and placing it on the table between us.

I sat, raising an eyebrow as I saw what book it was.

_A Caution for Young Girls._

"I was half-joking when I reccommended that to you."

She blushed a little.

"I know, but I wanted to read it all the same."

I cocked my head.

"Why?"

"You'll think it's stupid."

"But you clearly don't. If you did--"

"It wouldn't be on my mind, I know. It's just... I felt awful about this morning."

I frowned.

"Why? You were right."

She looked down at her lap.

"So were you. I wouldn't love you if you weren't the king, but if you had been some awful tyrant I would have wanted to marry you all the same because you'd be king and I'd be your queen. It made me realise how shallow I am."

I blinked.

"Do you think I'm any better? If you'd been a commoner girl, I would have found you as beautiful as I do now, but I wouldn't have considered marrying you. That's just the way it is. To the Great Houses, marriage is nothing more than a political tool. We just got lucky with each other."

She smiled sweetly. 

"We did."

I returned the smile.

"So, can we just agree that you were right and move on?"

She nodded.

I glanced down at the book.

"You didn't finish explaining why you were reading this."

She inclined her head down and looked up at me.

"I was... looking for a way to make it up to you."

My mouth fell slightly open.

"Oh... Did you find anything you wanted to try?"

She bit her lip and shook her head.

"No, I just kept reading because it was..."

"Arousing?"

Her face progressively more red as she nodded. 

I leaned in and muttered in her ear.

"Did you touch yourself?"

She gave a small noise and shook her head.

"I wanted it to be you doing it for me."

I grinned. 

"As my queen commands."


	12. Chapter 12

" _All_ of them?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

I rested my head in my hands.

"There are reports of men turning into wolves and..." Varys swallowed. "Eating corpses."

I waved my hand.

"I don't care about wolves eating corpses. The corpses are the ones who have peace. Bring me no more stories of werewolves. They are my grandfather's concern. Tell me of Renly and Stannis."

"I would love to, Your Grace, but there is nothing new to tell you."

"Nothing? They've done nothing?"

"Other than send letters proclaiming you a bastard and amass their forces? No. At this stage the Northern theatre is the only front seeing any change worth reporting. The King in the North continues to win."

"There are too many kings in this world. The King in the North, The King in the Stormlands, The King in King's Landing... What does Renly call himself, King of the Rainbow?"

Tyrion sighed from his seat.

"If we could return to the task at hand, Nephew."

I nodded.

"Thank you, Varys. You may go."

The Spider rose and bowed deeply before making his exit. When the door closed behind him, Tyrion spoke.

"We're going to need allies. Even if it's just so they won't take up arms against us."

"And even then."

He grunted.

"Myrcella is at the age where she should be betrothed. Tommen too, if possible."

"No. If we marry Tommen off now, I'm basically asking to be stabbed in the back. Myrcella is our only option."

"So we have to choose carefully. The way I see it, there are three viable candidates: Robin Arryn, Trystane Martell, and Theon Greyjoy."

I half-laughed, half-groaned.

"Who needs enemies with friends like them?"

"Quite, but we need all the help we can get, even if we have to kill them later."

"Even so, I'm surprised you put Robin Arryn forward. Didn't he want to throw you through the Moon Door?"

He grimaced.

"Don't remind me. The armies of the Vale would be recompense enough for me to swallow my pride, though. I was going to suggest that a betrothal might be enough, but I suspect that that is optimistic. Lysa Arryn may be a stupid cow, but she loves her son."

"They'll stay out of the war. It does her no good to take a side, and if they haven't declared for the Starks then they almost certainly wouldn't declare for us."

"What if we sent Littlefinger to sweeten the deal?"

"I can only have Littlefinger do so much before he demands something concrete in return. Securing the Vale for us would require a great reward, and I don't know for certain that he wouldn't play us for fools. Massaging Mace Tyrell's ego is one thing, wooing Lysa Arryn is quite another. No, better to keep him on a leash until we have something over him." 

"So that leaves us with two."

"I will not give my sister to the Greyjoys."

"It would bring us the Iron Fleet."

"Stannis smashed the Iron Fleet in the last war. It isn't supposed to exist. Either Balon Greyjoy has been rebuilding and harbours expanionist ambitions, in which case we would be giving him a hostage, or he hasn't and we would be using Myrcella to buy a couple of fishing boats and nothing more. And that's assuming that Theon Greyjoy would abandon Robb Stark. The answer is no."

A silence fell between us for a few seconds.

Tyrion swigged his wine.

"So... Dorne it is."

I ground my teeth together.

"Unless you have a better idea?"

I hope I didn't sound too hopeful.

He shook his head.

"The Martells are the last of the Great Houses with whom we might do business. Any other houses would owe fealty to their liege lords, and with Stannis controlling the Narrow Sea it will be difficult to get help from elsewhere. Believe me, Joffrey, if I had an alternative I would have offered it. Handing Myrcella over to the Dornish is the last thing I want."

I nodded.

"We'll have to gain some kind of insurance. What if we offer House Martell a seat on the Small Council? It would give Dorne proper representation in government, and it would give us a hostage."

"Who do you have in mind? We could ask for Prince Trystane himself; it might allow us to keep Myrcella here." 

"No. We have to offer them more than the Small Council. Myrcella must go to Sunspear, but I was thinking; Prince Doran has a daughter, does he not?"

"Arianne Martell, his heir apparent. A strong woman, by all accounts."

"Well, who better to represent Dorne than the future Princess? And I think Sansa would benefit from having another woman with authority in the capital."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Is there anything in particular she could teach her?"

I snorted.

"Get your mind out of the brothel. I mean what I said. We ask for her specifically and if they send someone else it's no skin off either of our noses."

He nodded.

"So, we agree. Dorne it is."

"Dorne it is. I'll write to Prince Doran personally. Should I write to Princess Arianne as well? It may make her feel valued by us."

"If you write to Arianne, Doran may believe you're going behind his back, and he will not suffer that kind of insult. Much better to go through the proper channels, make sure he knows we respect his authority."

I nodded.

"Alright, I'll send the ravens in the morning." I stood. "Come, sup with us. Sansa will enjoy your company, I think."

"Well, I wouldn't want to disappoint her."

He clambered out of the chair and followed me from the room.

### 

"Not so bad?! I used to be six feet tall!"

Sansa spat her wine into her cup and placed her hand against her mouth, containing her laughter.

Poor timing indeed.

I smirked and sipped my own wine.

Tyrion leaned back into his chair.

"Anyway, Lysa didn't particularly care for my confession so I demanded a trial by combat, and she accepted."

Sansa frowned.

"Why would she do that if she wanted you found guilty?"

"She didn't think I had a champion to hand, so I imagine the thought of a mouthy dwarf getting the shit kicked out of him must have appealed to her. The Vale seems so awfully dreary, they must be bored stiff up there."

"One would be forgiven for thinking that you pity them, uncle." I commented into my goblet.

"One would be wrong, nephew." He retorted. "And in any case, I wasn't guilty of the crime which she and your mother were accusing me of so it worked out fairly well for me in the end."

"But that doesn't answer my basic question," Sansa insisted, "Why do we allow trial by combat if it means that guilty people get away?"

So close, and yet so far.

Tyrion glanced at me.

I nodded and put my goblet down.

"That's the point."

She looked at me, both confused and appalled.

"The point?"

"It's about the distribution of power in the realm. Trial by combat dates back to when the Faith of the Seven had much more power than it does now, before the Conquest. It was a way of keeping power away from the Faith."

"Remember what I said, Sansa. You don't beat the Faith, you only make it look the other way."

"How?"

“Consider the humble thief. He owns no lands, holds no property, and casts no shadow on the world. Suppose he is then caught. He has stolen a few trinkets, mayhaps the odd valuable jewel, but nothing of consequence, so nobody cares if he lives or dies. The Faith and the Crown leave those decisions to the petty lord in whose domain he operates, because it makes no difference to anyone. Now, consider a high lord. He is master of all he surveys, and he only answers to the highest authority. If he were to find himself at the displeasure of the law, then the matter of who should try him becomes a matter of who is the highest authority: his fellow lords or the Faith." 

"But I don't understand why we need trials by combat to determine guilt."

I leaned forward.

"Because the Faith used to use Ordeals to determine guilt. It allowed them to acquit people they needed and dispose of people they didn't like, all while making it look as though the Gods had decided for them so it couldn't be called a corrupt system. Trial by combat is the nobility's alternative to that. They couldn't cut highborn heads off arbitrarily, but they could get their champion blind drunk the night before the trial. It was our way of maintaining the balance of power without confronting the Faith directly."

"And the Faith couldn't complain because it's the Gods who decide the victor of the duel, so the verdict isn't in our hands anyway."

She still didn't quite get it.

"You said the Faith used to use Ordeals."

"Ah, yes. Maegor put an end to that practice when he banned the Warrior's Sons. The Faith lost the means with which to exercise what little jurisdiction it has left."

"So why keep the Trials?"

I smiled.

"Never hold a trial unless you know what the outcome will be. That was the mistake your mother and Lysa Arryn made." 

"She must have had a reason to think you were guilty of trying to kill Bran."

Tyrion looked at her without speaking for a moment.

"Do you think I tried to kill your brother?"

She matched his gaze stonily.

"I don't know."

"And what would you do if it turned out that I had?"

She shrugged.

"Probably the same thing I'm going to do to whoever killed my father."

And with that, she returned to her food.

Tyrion and I traded a look, and I felt a large grin spread across my face.


	13. Chapter 13

I sighed in frustration and tossed my quill onto the desk.

"What's wrong?"

Sansa lay on our bed, flicking through her book.

"I hate writing letters, especially to highborns. You spend half the time trying to remember all the titles, then you forget what you were writing about."

She got up and placed her hand on my shoulder.

"I could write it for you."

I smiled and shook my head.

"It's fine."

"Why not get someone else to do it?"

I placed my hand over hers.

"The more you do, the more you control. If I write it, I know that this letter will say what I want it to say. If I delegate it, it might not and then I'd have to rewrite it anyway, which is just a waste of time."

"If you want something done, do it yourself?"

"Something like that, yes."

"Well..." She bit her lip, "When you're finished, I have something I'd like to do myself."

I grinned.

"I look forward to it."

She leaned down and hummed as we kissed for a moment.

"I'll leave you to it."

She made to leave, but before she could do so, the door opened to reveal the miserable frame of Pycelle. 

Shame. I was having an acceptable morning.

"Your Grace, I-I have a matter to discuss. A grave matter."

I frowned and exchanged a glance with Sansa.

"What? Are Myrcella and Tommen alright?"

"I-it concerns the princess, yes, but only in the matter of... Well, that is to say-"

"Spit it out, Pycelle." I snapped.

Sansa looked at me disapprovingly and held out her hand to the old man.

"Please, sit down, Grand Maester."

Pycelle murmered his thanks and wobbled into the chair.

"L-lord Tyrion has just told me that he intends to send the Princess to Dorne, to marry Prince Trystane. He told me that you must not know."

Sansa opened her mouth. I silenced her with a look.

"Thank you for telling me, Grand Maester. I will deal with Lord Tyrion."

Pycelle seemed a little put out by the abruptness, but I tilted my head to make it clear he should go. He struggled out of the chair and shuffled from the room.

Once the door shut behind him, Sansa frowned at me.

"What?"

"Why do you you hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him, I just think he's a useless waste of blood and organs."

She rolled her eyes.

"It seemed like he was trying to help you."

"If that's his idea of helping then I rest my case. He's not trying to help me, he's trying to get back into my favour. There is a big difference."

"He said Tyrion told him not to tell you."

"That may have been a lie."

"And if it isn't? You can't just ignore this just because you don't like the person telling you about it."

My eye twitched.

"I'm not ignoring it, I'm thinking. Never mistake that for inaction." I leaned back in my chair, and shouted. "Varys!"

Sansa started violently and stared at me as though I'd gone mad.

"Why did you just scream?"

I stood and grabbed a jug of wine from the sideboard.

"You'll see."

### 

"Your Grace called for me."

Varys glided into the room. 

Sansa paled and swallowed.

"How did you know to come here?"

He fixed her with a look that must have terrified her.

"Haven't you heard, my queen? Walls have ears."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Varys, stop being scary. It doesn't suit you."

He scoffed quietly but turned to me and bowed his head.

"What does Your Grace require of me?"

"Has Tyrion told you anything regarding Myrcella? Directly?"

Varys did not respond for a second too long.

"Directly, Your Grace, Lord Tyrion did mention the possibility that Myrcella might be betrothed to Theon Greyjoy. He said that he would discuss it with you, but that he was making the necessary arrangements without your knowledge."

So, there it was.

"Why would he do that?"

"I imagine that he wanted to free you of the more onerous and superrogetory burdens of kingship, Your Grace, and wished only to present to you those options which had already been arranged so as to expedite the process of their completion in the utmost haste."

Sansa frowned in confusion. I smirked.

"I see. And indirectly?"

"Indirectly, I have heard through the grapevine, such as it is, that there are also plans in place to send the princess to the Vale of Arryn, should that eventuality be deemed advantageous. My understanding is that Lord Tyrion has enlisted the services of Lord Baelish to that end."

I nodded.

"And was Lord Baelish permitted to speak to me about this?"

Varys shrugged.

"I cannot say, Your Grace."

It all clicked into place then.

"Thank you, Varys. You may go."

The Spider bowed and swept from the room.

When the door closed, Sansa inhaled sharply and turned to me angrily.

"Is he spying on us?"

I snorted.

"Don't be silly. He spies on everyone, including our enemies."

"You mean including us, and including my brother."

"Your brother is currently leading an insurrection against the Crown. Varys is the Master of Whisperers; he's doing his job."

"I fail to see how you are made safer by being spied on in your own chambers."

"Is there something specific that disturbs you about this?"

She opened her mouth and closed it again, like a fish on a hook. A blush crept up her face.

"It's just, they can hear us... When we're..."

I chuckled and pulled her into my arms.

"I actually hadn't thought of that... I mean, Varys is a eunuch, so I can't imagine he gets any particular pleasure from it. In fact, I don't think he particularly cares about us fucking; we are married after all." She smiled at that. "Besides, his spies are mostly little children because they can get into all the little nooks and crannies. I doubt they have a huge understanding of what goes on between a man and a woman. And in any case, don't you want people to know how good your husband makes you feel?"

She bit her lip, the blush now completely enveloping her face, and nodded.

"At least they're not watching us."

She giggled and buried her face in my neck.

"Stop it, it's embarassing."

I chuckled.

"Yes, but unfortunately it's something we're going to have to get used to."

She poked her head up. 

"And if I can't?"

I grinned.

"Then at least it'll make our time together a bit more exciting."

She raised an eyebrow skeptically. 

"Exciting?"

"This is power, Sansa. The Red Keep is ours, in which to do whatever we please, and if everyone in this castle can hear us fucking it doesn't matter because they can't stop us regardless of where we are and what they think. That's power."

"Would you fuck me on the Iron Throne?"

I raised my eyebrows.

"Gods, no. As fun as that would be, I have enough trouble sitting on the damn thing. Another thing about power is knowing how to exercise it. Fucking you on the Iron Throne would be like throwing Pycelle off a cliff: I'm sure it would be thrilling, but it would also cause more problems than it would solve. My desk, on the other hand..." I trailed off.

Sansa smirked and stood up.

"Well," She started hiking her skirt up to her hips, "in that case, I suppose I'm waiting for a real show of power."

I followed her to the desk, pushing her forward onto it, then I unlaced my breeches and pushed her smallclothes down, leaving her fully exposed to me.

"And who is the only one more powerful than you, my queen?"

She gasped as I grabbed her hip.

"You are."

We both moaned loudly as I entered her.

"And don't you forget it." I grunted as I picked up the pace a little.

She moaned and grasped the edge of the desk tightly.

"No, never. You're the king."

They say that power is the greatest aphrodisiac, but until that moment I never realised how great.

I shuddered and rested gently on top of her as I spilled my seed. My hands found hers and we lay there together catching our breath.

"That was..."

"Exciting?"

We both laughed at that.


	14. Chapter 14

"Are you sure you want to be there for this?"

"Why would I not?"

I shrugged.

"Because I won't be your husband in there. I'll be the king."

Sansa scoffed.

"I married the king, didn't I?"

I smiled.

"Alright."

We finished climbing the stairs in the Tower of the Hand. Two Lannister soldiers stood guard outside the door.

"You two may go." I reached for the door handle.

"Your Grace, we are supposed to stay outside these chambers at all times. The Lord Hand--"

"Did I misspeak?" 

The men paled beneath their helmets.

I raised my eyebrow.

"Alright, let me put it another way. You _will_ go, now. And if I hear another word from your mouth, I will have your tongue." I turned to the two knights of the Kingsguard who had accompanied us. "These two are all the protection myself and the Lord Hand will need."

The guards looked at the floor and sullenly marched away.

I glanced at Sansa and shook my head, then opened the door.

Tyrion sat in the corner with a book in his hand. He looked up to see us enter.

"Your Graces. To what--"

"You will not speak." I interrupted and sat down in one of the chairs next to him. Sansa stood behind me, while the Kingsguard took up positions beside the door.

Nobody likes silence, especially not somebody as unrelentingly loudmouthed as Tyrion Lannister. Unsurprisingly, it didn't take long for him to squirm uncomfortably.

"What is it that we are waiting for?"

As if on cue, Littlefinger barged into the chamber.

"I don't appreciate being made a fool of, dwarf."

He stopped dead in his tracks.

"Your Grace... I will come back later."

"No, you won't. Sit down, Lord Baelish."

Littlefinger swallowed and obeyed.

"I don't appreciate being made a fool of either, and you are running dangerously close to doing so. Now, explain yourself. You knew Tyrion was planning to send Myrcella to the Vale and you did not tell me."

Littlefinger prickled.

"Was he? Or was he just playing his game with all of us? The dwarf lied to me."

"That may be, but I think you wanted to believe him. Tyrion promised you Harrenhal, didn't he?" He seemed surprised that I had worked that out. "You aren't angry because you were lied to, you're angry because your prize has been snatched away. I know what you want, Baelish, and if you play your cards right, you might just get it."

Littlefinger raised an eyebrow.

"How?"

"My uncle Jaime is currently in the captivity of the Starks. I would see him released, and you will help me."

"Robb Stark will never release Ser Jaime."

"No, of course he won't. His mother might, though."

Littlefinger's face softened momentarily.

"I still don't see what part I have to play in this."

He wants me to spell it out for him, it would seem.

"I have it on good authority that the Starks are planning to reach out to the Brothers Baratheon in search of an alliance. The Lady Catelyn is their envoy."

"And what good authority might that be? Varys?"

Who else?

"Irrelevant. You will go to Storm's End immediately and meet with Lady Stark. You will plant a seed in her mind, then you will stay with the Tyrells and grease them up for us, as we discussed." 

I stood up and leaned over him.

"And if you do not do so, I will pass a Bill of Attainder against your name." 

He paled. 

"Any deviation, any failure, and everything that you have spent so long crawling in the mud to build will come crashing down around you."

Littlefinger swallowed again, his throat bobbing beneath that pitiable little goatee he insisted on inflicting on everybody else.

"I understand, Your Grace."

He stood and fled the room.

I sniffed and straightened my tunic.

Tyrion clapped his hands together.

"A masterful performance, nephew."

"Shut up, uncle." I snapped, sitting back down. "I still have to decide what to do with you. You've put me in a difficult position. Could you not have found another way to work out who was spying for me?"

"I must admit, I hadn't counted on you taking Pycelle so seriously as to actually check what was going on. I underestimated you." 

"You say that as though that's what I want to hear. The king shits and the Hand wipes, not the other way around. Still, it gave us leverage over Littlefinger, so that's something."

"What would you have me do with Pycelle?"

Sansa frowned.

"Why does anything need to be done with Pycelle?"

I sighed.

"The Hand needs authority to govern alongside the King effectively, and we need to present a united front. A betrayal against the Hand is a betrayal against the King. If we don't give the boot to Pycelle now, our authority is tarnished."

"Tarnished, not damaged. That's no reason to punish Pycelle for telling you about a plot against you." 

"Do you think he would have told me about that if I wasn't unhappy with him?"

"How do you know he wouldn't have if you weren't? You said that we should never do anything that makes us look weak, but what about looking cruel? What happens if you punish Pycelle and scare people away? Rewarding those who do right by you isn't weakness."

I clenched my jaw and looked at the wall.

"She's right, Joffrey."

I glared at Tyrion.

A compromise, then.

"Alright, we can put Pycelle in his place without too drastic a response. Take that sellsword of yours and a few tribesmen to his chambers. Scare him but don't harm him. Then Sansa will step in and shoo you off on my behalf."

Sansa frowned.

"Shouldn't you do it, if we want Pycelle to remain loyal to you? You are the king, he answers to you."

"I could do it, but it is much more beneficial for a king to be respected for his strength than loved for his mercy. A queen, on the other hand..." I reached up and touched her cheek. "I will always be hated, Sansa, and those who do not hate me will fear me. Maybe with time they will come to respect me, grudgingly, and appreciate my talents, but they will never love me. Not now. So they must love you instead, and you must learn to inspire love on your own merits."

Sansa blanched at the prospect.

"How do I do that?"

I smiled.

"By being yourself." I took her hand. "Look, this is just practice. Pycelle is firmly within our grasp anyway, and we can always use more... persuasive methods if he doesn't come around to our way of thinking." 

"Such as the one you just used on Lord Baelish?"

I grinned and nodded.

"The Dornish have a saying: 'Take a man by the balls, and his heart will follow you anywhere.'"

Sansa grinned back at me.

"I'll remember that."

Tyrion smirked.

"Smart girl."

### 

"Signed, Joffrey of the House Baratheon First of my Name, King of the Andals..." I muttered to myself as I finished writing my letter.

The door opened and Sansa stepped in.

I put down my quill.

"Did Pycelle enjoy your visit?"

Sansa crossed the room and sat opposite me.

"No, but he knows who to turn to if it happens again."

I smiled.

"And did you enjoy it?"

"Should I?"

"Does it matter if you should? I'm asking if you did."

She took a breath, hesitant.

"I did. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed hearing him crying out for help and knowing only I had the power to stop it. I enjoyed lying to him and knowing I would get away with it. I enjoyed everything coming together just like we agreed it would. I enjoyed being able to change your mind, to convince you that I was right."

I nodded.

"And you were right. Isn't that the best thing of all?"

She bit her lip as the smile spread even wider across her face.

"Yes."


	15. Chapter 15

"And what part am I supposed to have played in this?"

Ser Lancel Lannister ignored Sansa and instead directed his response toward me. Alas. 

"Using some vile sorcery, her brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves. Thousands of good men were butchered. After the slaughter, the Northmen feasted--"

I rolled my eyes and waved a hand. If it had been possible, I would have slouched drowsily back into the Iron Throne.

"'On the flesh of the slain.' Yes, I've heard that tale before and I find it tiresome. Now, answer the question."

Lancel sniffed.

"I do not answer to traitors, Your Grace."

I breathed in sharply, my nostrils flared.

"Do you think I'm an idiot, Ser Lancel?"

He blanched.

"N-no, Your Grace, I-I-I don't know how I could have given you that impression."

I leaned forward on the throne.

"So you don't think I wouldn't know if my own wife was a traitor?"

Lancel trembled and stammered incomprehensibly. 

"You have a tongue, ser. I suggest you make use of it before I deprive you of the privelige."

Lancel swallowed and steeled himself. Except steeled didn't seem like the right word. Too strong. 

"No, Your Grace. I-I don't think that."

I nodded.

"Very well, then I think an apology is in order."

Lancel nodded meekly and turned to Sansa.

"Y-your Grace, I o-offer my humblest apologies and beg your forgiveness if I caused offence with my suggestion that you were involved in Robb Stark's treasonous acts."

Sansa smiled gently and nodded.

"I took no offence, good ser. Your concern for His Grace's welfare is apology enough, and I sleep well at night knowing he has such loyal servants as you."

I smiled faintly to myself. We hadn't even rehearsed this, yet she was playing the game to perfection.

"Ser Lancel, I understand your concern. I was as shaken by Eddard Stark's betrayal as anybody. He was a good man, corrupted by lies and slander proliferated by the Brothers Baratheon, and it would appear that that corruption has, regrettably, spread to his son. If he could turn, anybody could. Your diligence does you credit, but matters of court are mine to deal with, just as matters of war have been delegated to Lord Tywin. You need not intercede on my behalf unless I explicitly ask you to do so. Have I made myself clear?"

He swallowed and nodded, clearly relieved that he hadn't stoked my wrath.

"Yes, Your Grace."

Sansa stepped forward.

"If your services are needed, you shall be sent for, Ser Lancel."

"Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace."

He bowed and turned on his heel.

I looked around with a raised eyebrow.

"Anybody else?"

Nobody spoke.

"Leave me."

Once the sheep had filtered out, leaving Sansa and I alone, I stood and stretched.

"Very kingly." She commented sarcastically.

I snorted.

"It's been said that as time goes on, kings will begin to mirror the qualities of their subjects more and more, until they become the perfect embodiment of the people they rule."

"That sounds terrible."

"Yes, it does. Fortunately, I think we've got some way to go before that happens."

"Thank the gods for that."

I smiled and kissed her gently.

"I'm sorry that Lancel turned on you so quickly. I wouldn't have let him speak openly if I'd known he was going to do that."

"You said it yourself, I need to inspire love on my own merits. At least I've broken through a little bit. It helps that you scare people, but I'm still the daughter of the traitor Ned Stark."

"Give it time. If we keep blaming Stannis and Renly for misleading your father, his name will eventually clear."

"What if people don't believe it? What if we can't prove that it's true?"

"We don't have to prove anything. People have short memories; if you repeat a lie often enough, it becomes the truth eventually. It doesn't matter if anyone actually believes it because after a while nobody will remember whatever it is that they don't believe."

She sighed and sat down on the stairs before the throne, bringing her knees up to her chin.

I sat beside her.

"What's wrong?" 

"I don't know how you do it. When my father held court at Winterfell, he never had anyone talk back at him. The people all adored him, nobody was at anybody else's throat. Everyone was happy. I don't know how you cope with all this backstabbing and deceiving and tricking. I don't know how to lie to a whole Kingdom. I don't even know how to talk down Lancel bloody Lannister. How am I supposed to help you bring Westeros back together?"

I placed my hand on hers and nuzzled the back of her neck.

"Have you considered the possibility that you're already doing those things?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you've only just started actively participating in my reign and you've already helped keep Pycelle on my side and not my mother's, and for what it's worth I thought you handled Lancel bloody Lannister quite magnificently. You have all the tools you need; it's just a matter of honing them."

"How long did it take you?"

"I've never stopped. There are no ends to politics, only means."

"I thought that ends justify means."

"We don't need to justify anything; our enemies don't care about justifications, and everyone else can do nothing about it. It's best to think not of justification, but of reason. The Stormlords justify their treasons with the idea that I am not a Baratheon, but of course they don't know for certain that it's true, so why support Stannis?"

"They want something that Stannis is offering."

"Exactly, so they don't go about sullying their consciences with anything as sordid as _evidence_ or _justifications_. Justification is just a fancy word for 'excuses,' and they already have their excuse ready-made for them, like a bed. They lie down in it, and when they wear it out and no longer find it comfortable, they get up and find another one. 

She turned her head to look at me.

"And what about us?"

I blinked.

"We're no different from any of them."

"So we're all just... moral vacuums? No pity or remorse or guilt? Nothing?"

I frowned.

"I lost my taste for such luxury a long time ago."

She tensed and turned fully around, shoulders hunched.

"You think a conscience is a luxury?"

"It is if I have to pay for it with the lives of the people I love." I lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. "That is too high a price, even for a king."

Her stance softened and she took my hand, looking down at it.

"And what about a queen? Will I become a moral vacuum too?"

I craned my neck down and rested my forehead against hers.

"Gods, I hope so, my love."

I hummed with pleasant surprise as she crashed her lips against mine and threw her arms around my neck.

### 

"The Dornish have accepted our offer."

I nodded and sipped my wine.

"So it's decided... I suppose we should tell Myrcella now. It will give her time to come around to the idea."

"I wouldn't worry. She's a smart girl, she will understand. And I have it on good authority that Prince Trystane is a fine young man."

"A kingsguard will have to accompany her, at least until the wedding. Then she will be their kin."

"Yes, I think that would be wise. They will probably be sending a few bodyguards of their own for Princess Arianne, so it shouldn't cause a diplomatic issue."

"So she is coming?"

Tyrion nodded.

"She is."

"I half-expected them to ignore that part of the proposal."

"Perhaps they believe that she is of greater use to them here than in Dorne. Her voice will be on the Small Council; they expect influence."

"It's one thing to expect influence and quite another to gain it. What do we know of her?"

"According to our reports, she is quite... Dornish."

I sighed.

"Just our luck."

"This was your idea, nephew, not mine. We knew how difficult it would be to find allies, thanks to whoever killed Ned Stark. I think we can bear the character of one Dornishwoman, given the alternative. Dorne's military strength is not inconsiderable, they can provide good materials for bowmaking among other things, and if nothing else," he raised his goblet, "wine shall flow."

I rolled my eyes.

"What was that other matter you wanted to speak to me about?"

Tyrion dug a small scroll out of his pocket.

"Lancel gave me this."

I picked it up and read it. My hands curled into fists of their own accord, crinkling and crushing the parchment.

"How did she know?"

"Pycelle blabbered to Lancel, who then told your mother."

"'Return Pycelle to his rightful place immediately, or face the consequences.' She presumes to give me orders."

"No, she presumes to give me orders. Lancel came to me directly, and made it clear that this message was for me."

"So Lancel is communicating with her."

"Yes. He is rather devoted to her, the poor fool."

I threw the scroll back onto the desk.

"I will deal with him tomorrow."

"Already done. We have come to an arrangement regard your mother's future communications."

"I see. What did you blackmail him with? Just out of curiosity."

Tyrion opened his mouth, then hesitated.

"Is it awkward?"

He nodded.

"In exchange for his cooperation... I promised not to tell you that he's fucking your mother."

My eyebrows shot up.

"Really?"

He nodded.

I blinked.

"I thought my mother had better taste."

Tyrion snorted into his cup.

"You seem strangely undisturbed by this."

"Compared to some of the other things I've heard, this is like two little children bumping noses in the garden. I'm more disturbed by the fact that she did it despite the rumours about her and Jaime. Did she not think people would notice?"

"She probably didn't think of it. Either that or she didn't care: your mother has never been careful. Even now, she will poke at you. Your restraint is admirable."

I nodded.

"I've been thinking a little on what you said, about Grandfather. I think you are also just enough of a heartless bastard to survive this place, and just good enough to make some friends along the way. You're more like him than he'd be willing to admit."

Tyrion sniffed and grimaced.

"My aunt Genna said something to that effect once; to his face, no less. He refused to speak to her for half a year."

"Well, he can't ignore me, no matter how stubborn he is."

"Nevertheless. dwarves are rather easy to overlook." 

"Nevertheless, your contribution will be acknowledged, I promise you. Besides, I'm a Lannister now. A Lannister always pays his debts."


	16. Chapter 16

"Renly is dead."

Silence rang around the Small Council chamber.

"How?"

"We don't know, Your Grace."

I stood up and slowly paced around.

"Well, what about his army? Was there a battle?"

"Not that we know of, Your Grace. There is a rumour that it was one of his kingsguard who struck him down, but that is mere hearsay."

I clenched my jaw until I felt my teeth creak, turning around on my heel. 

"How did this happen?!" I shouted. "All these years, that insignificant speck has pranced around the land as though he owns it and when the time finally comes for him to pirouette off this mortal plane, he can't even fucking die usefully!"

I leaned on the Small Council table.

"Tell me Littlefinger reached the Tyrells."

"He did. The Tyrell army retreats to Highgarden as we speak, with Lord Baelish as their guest. He promises to continue his efforts. Meanwhile, the Storm Lords have all pledged allegiance to Stannis."

"Which means," Tyrion hesitated, "we are next."

I nodded grimly.

"We'll have to start preparing for a siege."

I turned to the sellsword in the City Watch Commander's chair, picking his nails.

"What do you recommend?"

The sellsword puffed out his cheeks.

"Well, if you'll pardon me, Your Grace, it seems like the City Watch is a sorry lot of sots at the best of times. What with the war and everything, well, they'd be fucked in a real battle. All the good men are gone, you see. Fortunately, we're not fighting a real battle. It's a siege, which comes with its own problems. Fortunately, you have me, and I can tell you right now that it ain't Stannis Baratheon that'll kill you if the siege takes a long time. Starvation, that's what kills you. If the soldiers can't eat, they can't fight, and if people can't eat, they eat the soldiers. When there's no more soldiers, they eat us. We need to make sure that the poor fuckers can eat, so we'll need to crack down on thieves, cheats, and swindlers. Make sure there's enough food to go around. If we do that, we can stay up here, nice and cosy; fortify the gates, piss arrows down on 'em and wait for reinforcements."

I nodded.

"Very well. You have my leave to deal with known thieves in any manner you see fit. Offer all the remaining fit men food and a good bed for their service; train them hard and train them well. If any refuse our offer, tell them to stay out of our way."

I turned to Varys.

"Send word to Lord Tywin. He is to send all forces which are not essential to the defence of seized territory in the Riverlands south with the utmost haste. We will hold the city until he arrives."

Pycelle murmured from his chair. A little bald patch had appeared on his face where his beard had once been, I noted with some satisfaction.

"Surely it would be unwise to compel Lord Tywin to weaken his territory if it is at risk from the Stark forces?"

It was a fair point, so I didn't bite his head off. 

"Territory can be reclaimed, Grand Maester, but not time. We have a limited window before Stannis gets here and even if that were not true, I'd rather lose a thousand Harrenhals than lose King's Landing. In the end, whoever sits the Iron Throne rules the Seven Kingdoms. We cannot vacate the city."

Tyrion cleared his throat.

"Should we not send word to the Dornish? They could send troops to menace Stannis' forces in the Stormlands and buy us time."

A dry smile played at the corner of my mouth.

"I think we would be better off waiting until Princess Arianne gets here before telling the Dornish that we're expecting an invasion. After that, well, they'll certainly have an incentive to help us fight it off, and Myrcella will be in Sunspear and out of harm's way. Besides, I doubt they could muster their forces and get them here any quicker than Lord Tywin could. On the other hand, if we survive this, they can start the invasion of the Stormlands alongside our forces when the time comes. If we tell them now, they might decide to reconsider their loyalties." 

"And how do you expect Prince Doran to react when he discovers your little ploy?"

I shrugged.

"Ravens get lost all the time."

Tyrion clenched his fists.

"Joffrey, listen to me. Do not place your sister in the snake's nest right before you kick it. Prince Doran will not suffer a deception of that magnitude when we have an agreement in good faith."

I scoffed.

"In good faith? The Dornish want us dead just as much as Stannis does. This marriage is nothing more than a temporary ceasefire and we chose to ignore that fact for the sake of the war effort. You are just as responsible for this as I am."

"Which exactly why we must not provoke them!"

"Provocation involves both the stick and the carrot, Tyrion. When Princess Arianne arrives, we will have our stick."

"And what carrot do we possess that would make up for it?"

"Gregor Clegane and Armory Lorch ought to suffice. There is a reason I left them off the table."

Tyrion closed his eyes for a second.

"You're assuming that we will win."

"Of course. There's no point planning beyond my own death; who would take my place? Tommen isn't strong enough to rule, even if he survives to sit the throne."

"And Myrcella?"

"Myrcella will be accompanied to Dorne by Ser Arys Oakheart. If the worst happens, he has his orders."

Tyrion's face hardened.

"And what of the rest of us?"

I blinked.

"I should think that you will follow whichever course of action serves your purposes best. I won't bother telling you what to do because it won't make any difference." I swept my arm around. "We're all politicians here, aren't we?"

Tyrion scratched his nose.

"Point taken, Your Grace."

I nodded and glanced around.

"Unless there are any further calamities to report, this council is dismissed."

I sat down and rested my forehead on my knuckles as the others stood.

"Varys, remain."

The Spider's face stretched into a smug, totally unsurprised smile. He had expected me to ask him to stay, of course.

"What does Your Grace require of me?"

"Take a wild stab in the dark."

"Queen Sansa?"

"I want her in a safe place if the battle turns against us."

Varys raised an eyebrow.

"I should think Maegor's Holdfast ought to suffice."

"Do not insult my intelligence, Varys."

"So long as you do not overestimate mine. If you are asking me to do something, you must be specific."

I glowered.

"Very well. If the city falls, you will smuggle Sansa out of this city and deliver her to her mother's family at Riverrun. Give Robb Stark my sincerest apologies for all that has happened, then you will be free to pursue whatever course you feel is best for the kingdom, as per our arrangement."

"Even if it threatens the existence of House Lannister?"

My lips stretched into a grim smile as I stared up into his eyes. 

"Are you asking for my blessing, Varys? No. You don't need it, nor do you want it. My... forgiveness?" I leaned back in my chair. "As far as I know, you have yet to do something which would require forgiveness."

Varys shrugged.

"Then perhaps the closest thing to what you describe is a sort of pre-emptive forgiveness. You accept the possibility that I would become an accomplice to the destruction of your house?"

There it was. He wanted to avoid another Mad King.

"I may have nailed my breeches to the mast, but I can still make my peace with a world that doesn't include the Lannisters. Rest assured, Varys, I don't intend to die in a blaze of wildfire."

Varys nodded.

"That is indeed reassuring, Your Grace, thank you. And I shall ensure that the appropriate arrangements are made for Queen Sansa."

He turned and made for the exit.

"Oh, and Varys,"

He turned.

"If the worst happens, give my regards to Danaerys Targaryen."

For the first time, the smile wasn't sickly sweet. It was almost conspiratorial. 

"I will, Your Grace."


	17. Chapter 17

Tyrion poured himself yet another cup of wine and sighed contentedly at the sight.

"Are you sure you want to drink that much? I don't want you embarrassing me in front of Arianne Martell."

Tyrion smacked his lips and slurped noisily.

"Believe you me, nephew: I would be far more of an embarrassment if I were to be sober. Besides, I have my best ideas when I'm drunk."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Is that because you're always drunk?"

Tyrion responded by taking a large gulp.

"Suit yourself. How are we going to defend the city?"

"The usual: tall walls, big spikes, and lots of arrows."

"'Rain fire on them from above.'"

"Precisely."

I sighed.

"I'm disappointed. I expected a more elegant solution."

"Sieges are inelegant. If you expect a work of art from a sellsword, a drunk, and an egotist, you may find yourself disappointed."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that last bit."

Tyrion snorted into his cup. 

"Speaking of pretending not to hear; what did you speak to Varys about?"

"He's preparing to smuggle Sansa out of the city if push comes to shove."

"I see. Were his terms reasonable?"

"The usual. No burning the city down with wildfire."

Tyrion did a double-take.

"How in the Seven Hells do you know about that?"

I shrugged.

"Do you remember a few years ago I went missing for a day?"

"Yes, your mother nearly had several men killed."

"I spent that day exploring the castle and I stumbled on one of Aerys' old caches. Given that wildfire is extremely unstable, I gathered it wasn't just for burning people at the stake."

"'Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off.'"

"Didn't one of the Targaryen princes drink the stuff?"

"Yes, he thought it would turn him into a dragon. The Targaryens were always a strange bunch, to be sure, and they could be unstable, but Aerys was something else. Varys is right to be cautious, and I would quite like to avoid being blown to smithereens..."

He trailed off, and we both had a thought.

"You don't think we could..."

"Use the wildfire to destroy Stannis' fleet? It's insane enough to work."

"How would we deliver it? Catapults?"

Tyrion shook his head.

"That's too dangerous. The soldiers won't have time to be careful, and the pots are extremely fragile, to say nothing of their contents. We'd end up melting the walls."

"Then I suppose we can't lay them on the shore. Too close to the city."

"We need some way of keeping the fire away from the city while still having the best chance of causing the most damage." Tyrion reached out and grabbed a map, unfolding it on the table. "Bronn and I have already checked the walls. We think Stannis will try to breach the Mud Gate with the main thrust of his attack, so we'll need to construct scorpions, trebuchets, and catapults."

"But how do we get the wildfire out there?"

"There's a bottleneck at the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. We could load some fireships and send them to meet the fleet head-on."

"The Royal Fleet wouldn't stand a chance against Stannis anyway. We could use all of them."

"That won't be necessary. I'd wager three ships would be enough to send Stannis up in smoke."

"We would still need to make sure that they don't just sail away."

"That would mean closing off the Rush somehow, but only after they get through."

"Nothing permanent. I don't want us to be fishing for driftwood six months from now."

"A boom."

"My thoughts exactly. Once we've sent Myrcella on her way, summon all the blacksmiths still in the city. I'll get them working on this if you go to the Pyromancer's Guild and start them producing wildfire."

Tyrion burped and nodded.

"If you can stand up, that is."

### 

It was curious to be standing on the docks, staring out into Blackwater Bay. It was like having a banquet in a field and knowing that the very next day, the only feast would be corpses and the only revellers would be crows.

I turned my head away from the peaceful waters and watched Tommen and Myrcella embrace. My brother's whole body shook with sobs.

"He's going to have to toughen up."

Sansa squeezed my hand.

"Not everybody can be like you."

"He doesn't need to be like me; he just needs to be capable of getting through the slightest adversity without bursting into tears."

"Your Grace," Tyrion pointed out into the sea. "She's here."

A small sailboat swept smoothly into view.

"Alright, Tommen." I stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's time."

Myrcella extricated herself from his grasp and stood up straight.

"Your Grace."

I scoffed and pulled her into my arms.

"I might be the king, but you are my sister. I will always protect you."

"I know."

"Ser Arys will accompany you to Dorne. He is your sworn shield. Whenever you want to send us a message, you give it to him and let him do the rest."

She nodded.

"Have courage, Myrcella, and remember our words."

"Ours is the fury."

"I swear if any harm comes to you, all of Dorne will know it."

She smiled.

"I know they will."

Myrcella moved away from me and approached Sansa, throwing her arms around her too.

"Thank you for being there for me."

Sansa laughed.

"I was about to say the same thing."

I let them have their moment and peered back out into the bay at the boat. By now a distant figure was visible, standing on the bow and leaning out toward us.

"Unbowed, unbent, unbroken." Muttered Tyrion.

I shook my head.

"Brave words, but brave words will do them little good in the end. If they do not bow, they will bend. If they do not bend, they will break."

The craft finally came to a halt by the pier, and from it emerged three figures. They walked from the pier in almost perfect step. On closer inspection, and somewhat to my surprise, they were all women. That, however, was where the similarities ended.

To my left stood the tallest of the three in bright lilac robes, to my right a small figure wrapped in pure white, and between them a handsome woman in orange and red. Arianne Martell clearly wished to make an impression.

The trio came to a stop before us and bowed in unison.

"Your Grace."

She spoke with a strong Dornish accent and a husky voice. 

"Princess Arianne, welcome." I returned the bow with a smile. "I trust your journey was uneventful?"

A smirk spread across the face of the woman in lilac. I fixed her in my gaze.

"Or, if you find pleasantries undesirable, perhaps you could introduce your companions?"

The smirk shrank minutely.

Arianne rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

"Forgive my cousins, Your Grace, they are unaccustomed to life outside Dorne. They are Ladies Nymeria and Tyene Sand." The two others nodded in turn.

Bastards. Was Prince Doran really so bold, or had his daughter done this behind his back? 

Their gazes travelled to where Tyrion stood a few paces behind me.

Lady Nymeria's mouth twisted again, this time in hatred.

"Imp." She muttered under her breath.

I sighed.

"Princess, if I cannot trust your cousins not to kill my courtiers I must ask that they leave. I do not wish to have a feud with you."

Arianne placed a hand on Nymeria's arm.

"You need not worry, Your Grace. Our feud is not with you."

My eye twitched.

"No, but it is with Gregor Clegane."

She blinked.

I leaned in.

"If you give me your word - now - that I can trust you not to act rashly and you keep that vow for the duration of your stay here, then once the war in the Riverlands is won I will give you Gregor Clegane to take back to Dorne."

"It isn't enough." Nymeria spat.

"Alright, I'll throw in Armory Lorch and any men who were under their command during the siege of King's Landing."

Arianne's eyes widened. 

"What if he dies?"

"Then you will have his skull. If nothing else, it will serve as a token."

I held out my hand.

She mulled it over for a few seconds, glancing back at her cousins. Then she nodded.

"You have my word."

When most people shake hands with a king or a prince they squeeze as hard as they can. It might be a way of gaining confidence, by reassuring themselves that they are strong enough to cause a king pain, or they might be trying to send a message: I am stronger than you. Some were indeed painful, while others could visibly strain themselves and still not even cause a slight itch.

Arianne Martell fell into another category of people. She shook firmly, but not with excessive force. It is the mark of a person unawed by power, and utterly confident in their own person.

She withdrew her hand and clapped.

"Now, where is this girl my brother's going to marry?"

I led the trio up the pier, exchanging a glance with Tyrion as we passed.

The Dornishwomen completely ignored him as we approached where Myrcella, Sansa and the rest of the assembled courtiers stood.

"My ladies, I present my wife, Queen Sansa, and my sister, Princess Myrcella."

Sansa had opened her mouth and held out her hands in greeting, but visibly froze in shock as Arianne planted a kiss on her cheek.

Arianne chuckled.

"You must forgive me, Your Grace. We Dornish are an amorous lot; I apologise if you are not used to it." 

Sansa swallowed. I was about to step in when she smiled and nodded.

"No, I am not, but of course our differences ought to be celebrated. I shall have to introduce some Northern culture to you at some stage."

Arianne nodded and turned to Myrcella.

"Now you, my dear, are far too beautiful for the likes of my brother." 

Myrcella beamed at the praise. Arianne cupped her face in her hands.

"Dorne will love you, and perhaps you will come to love it too."

Myrcella nodded and Arianne moved away so that she could enter the boat. We watched her slowly make her way aboard and waited for her to appear on deck.

I raised my arm and waved as the vessel gently sailed out of view.

Then I turned, and started back toward the Red Keep.

"Princess, walk with me."


End file.
